


Made In Shadows

by vipjuly



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cowboy Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hannibal and Will are cannibals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matthew Brown Dies...duh, Past Will/Male OC's, Period-Typical Homophobia, Probably some historical inaccuracies, Secret Identity, Sheriff Will Graham, The Couple That Slays Together Stays Together, Wendigo Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Becoming sheriff of a sleepy town hadn't been on Will's radar when he initially left Louisiana, headed West and determined to find peace in the great mountains he'd only heard tell of. Stuck in the town and held fast by a debt owed to the dead, Will keeps the peace while hiding his true self. When a new doctor comes to town, foreign and mysterious, Will feels his walls dropping inch by inch.Even in broad daylight, shadows ensconce Hannibal Lecter.Those same shadows have been following Will since he left the bayou. Is there a possibility Hannibal could help him tame them?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	Made In Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> set nebulously in the late 1800's.

The sun hung low in the sky, blue turning to pinks and reds. It was nearing eight o’clock, the bustle of the small town slowing down as people closed shutters and untied their horses to head off to their homes on the outskirts of the town, off in the beautiful plains where the sky stretched endlessly. Will Gallois, surname edited to “Graham” to blend in, watched from the porch of his quaint sheriff’s office, leaned against a pillar with his arms loosely folded across his chest. The mid-summer heat stuck to his skin and clothing, no wind to relieve the stickiness. The brim of his hat blocked the rays from where the sun dipped, though his eyes still squinted a bit as he watched the comings and goings. Dark curls stuck to the back of his neck, his hand reaching up occasionally to rub them away from the collar of his shirt. 

The drunk hour was quickly approaching. There were many residents who kept themselves shut up in the saloon during the day time, consuming poison and spelling their grievances to anyone who would listen, but there were also residents who waited for the more appropriate time of after-dark. Will didn’t tend to go to the saloon looking for troublemakers; he sat on his porch in his rocker, whittling or sanding the latest busy project to keep himself occupied until he was called upon. And he was called upon nightly, so as soon as the sun fell beneath the horizon it would only be a matter of time until he heard gunshots or screaming. 

Tonight, when he sat down in his rocker, he sliced neatly into a juicy red apple with his pocket blade. The fruit was crisp and delicious, better than a cool drink of water as he chewed and swallowed. The saloon was only a few buildings down, lanterns lit outside as well as on the second floor where ladies took gentlemen for private entertainment. He had a clear view of the establishment and knew that his eyes settled on it alone tended to be an inspiration for people to behave themselves. Next to the saloon was a restaurant, nothing too high class, but the fanciest the town had to offer to those who were feeling particularly luxurious and had clean clothes to spare. It was amusing to him to watch the so-called “elite” rush past the saloon to enter the safety of the restaurant, looking mildly horrified at the yells and jeers that were the constant soundtrack of the saloon. 

Using the heels of his boots to rock back in his chair, the spurs jangling softly, Will continued to eat his apple. The sheriff’s office and attached jailhouse had been empty for a few days, much to his personal delight. The record of non-offense was currently at five days, since Will took office a year ago. For the most part Will knew that an overnight stay in the jail sobered up ruffians and let them cool down. He’d only sent one man to hang, and that had been an extreme circumstance. 

Very rarely, he dealt with problems himself, just a hair outside the line of the law.

Being sheriff wasn’t something Will had wanted when he’d moved to this no name town in Oklahoma two years ago. It was a pass-through station for stagecoaches and weary travelers with just enough business to keep the residents and travelers stocked up. What was originally supposed to have been a two-night stay to rest his horse and stock up on supplies turned into a job and a house, when the sheriff deputized him in thanks for breaking up a gunfight. In leaving the swamps outside of Lafayette, Will had had a vision of what his future would look like: forests, mountains, rivers--true American beauty out in the woods. Solitude without judgment. Him, his horse, and his pack of dogs. But the sheriff, Jack Crawford, had been so adamant about Will’s intuitive skills as a lawman, Will had said he’d stay for a bit, just to see.

A year later Sheriff Crawford had been gunned down, and his badge had been passed to Will.

The chaos had been immediate.

In a town-on-one brawl Will made the loudest statement not with his words--for he didn’t speak often to these people, worrying that his accent would draw too much attention--but by killing nearly a dozen men in cold blood, using a combination of his hands, knife, and the shiny Colt on his hip. An act of establishing dominance, his dog-training brain told him. Since then, the town had been equal parts thankful and wary of the mysterious Will Graham, a man who rode in from the South and ended up a permanent fixture of their small, dusty town. Many people avoided him in general, likely due to the fact conversations on his end were clipped and seemingly impatient. No one knew where he was from--his heritage or his upbringing. Towns like this were hotbeds for persecution, and he wasn’t too keen on letting them know anything about him. He had a house and some land a five minute ride from town, he had his pack of dogs, he had his horse and he had a tight leash on the miscreants.

That was all anyone needed to know. He needn’t dissect how easy it was to take so many lives, and some since then.

An uproar from the saloon had him looking up from his neatly cored apple, the last of the flesh crunching between his teeth. A man was suddenly flung from the swinging doors like a cannonball, dropping to the dirt road outside with a yelp and a thud. Standing up, Will held the apple core to his buckskin Winston, who was loosely tied to the hitch post in front of the office, the horse gobbling up the snack quickly. He folded his knife, slipped it into the pocket of his pants, and then watched as another man followed the first out of the doors. 

“Hey-!” The man on the ground scrambled back on his ass, kicking up dirt as he went. 

The other man, tall and broad and tan, moved down the steps slowly, hand on the gun at his hip. “You’re lookin’ at me mighty funny, partner.” 

The smaller man on the ground finally got his footing, standing up and dusting himself off. He glared at the taller man with a surprising amount of dignity. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You spilled my drink!” Educated speech, an east coast accent. Scholar, perhaps.

Blue eyes watched the exchange curiously. At this time of night, with twilight turning to dark, he should take off his hat to see better. He tipped his chin down a bit, giving the illusion that he wasn’t looking nor caring about what was unfolding, the brim of his hat covering his eyes. Instead of visually observing, he listened. He could absorb the circumstance just as well.

“I think you got bigger things to worry ‘bout,” the tall man said. His feet were heavy as he crossed to the small man, and judging by the sound of scuffling, he’d grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him close. Will knew that voice. He couldn’t put a name to it, but that man looked for trouble at any and every opportunity. Most locals didn’t rise to the bait. The poor man he was harassing seemed to be having a case of wrong place, wrong time. “You tryna get at my girl?” 

“ _What_ -? No!” The other man spluttered. 

Clenching his jaw, Will stepped off of the porch, his boots thumping purposefully on the wooden steps. He heard a hush fall over the small crowd that gathered. When he was close enough he tipped his hat up, regarding the scene quietly. The taller man, ignoring his presence, spit on the ground and then wound up for a punch, hitting the smaller man square in the nose. The fountain of blood that sprayed immediately stained the smaller man’s shirt and spilled onto the dirt, clumping the particles crimson as he cried out in pain and tried to wrestle free of the other man’s grasp. 

“P-Please-” the smaller man turned his gaze helplessly toward Will. When Will only regarded him coolly, he whimpered and landed a weak hit on the taller man’s jaw. 

Howling with laughter, the taller man threw the smaller one down into the dirt. “Maybe you weren’t lookin’ at my girl. Maybe you was lookin’ at _me_.” His smile turned manic. “I think that’s worse, friend.” 

Hot anger flashed through Will. Stepping forward to put his body between the men, he held up a hand to the taller one and said icily, “Pull in your horns.” 

Laughing again, the tall man smirked at Will, his teeth brown and riddled with holes. “Defending the sinner, sheriff?” 

Shaping his mouth and working his tongue, Will spoke in what he knew would pass as the accent of this region. It was an ill-fitting suit, but necessary. “You made your point. Go on back inside and quit hazin’ the tenderfoot.” 

Eyeballing Will curiously, but seemingly satisfied that he wouldn’t be punished for his assault, the man spat at Will’s feet before turning around and lumbering back up the steps. A classic case of an alpha male publicly asserting his dominance. Will had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The rest of the people dispersed as well, murmuring amongst one another as was usual for the aftermath of such a tussle. Turning toward the small man with a barely concealed sigh, Will bent and held his hand out toward him. 

“Doctor. Now.” 

The man hesitantly reached up to take his hand, the two of them working to get him back on his feet. “Th-thank you.” He was well-dressed and clean, his hair tousled from what was likely a very prim comb.

“Don’t.” Will was gruff as he looped the small man’s arm over his shoulders to help escort him to the doctor’s building. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to ring. In the two years Will had lived in this town he’d only met the doctor a handful of times--a stooped old man with liver-spotted skin and wisps of white hair badly combed away from his features. He didn’t make it a habit to see the man--so far he’d been able to tend to his own wounds, should he be lucky enough to sustain any. The building was one of the most well-kept in the main town, the whole of it painted a sky blue. The porch looked recently repaired, the windows freshly cleaned. New gold lettering was on the glass, which Will looked at with interest. A surprisingly modern look for this dusty, no-name town.

**Dr. Hannibal Lecter**. 

Will frowned as he knocked on the door. The doctor’s name had been Preston. The small man leaned into him a bit, his free hand still over his nose and mouth to try and catch the blood sluggishly falling. Trying not to get impatient, Will came to attention when he heard footsteps making their way to the front door. When the door opened, however, Will blinked in surprise. 

This was not Dr. Preston.

Instead, a man very much like a European aristocrat swung the door open and looked at them both in mild surprise. He was wearing a three piece suit in a tailored cut, his hair slicked back and his cheekbones lit harshly from the candle he held in his hand. Tall and broad, fierce and powerful, his aura radiated off of him like a thousand suns, casting everything around him in shadow. Their eyes caught, the doctor nearly looking right through Will and causing his spine to snap to attention. Will’s brain, pistol-quick and just as smart, stuttered to a halt. Just as quickly as they linked the doctor gave his attention to the man under Will’s arm, stepping aside to usher them in. The reprieve nearly left Will with whiplash. 

“Come have a seat.” 

His accented words lilted through Will’s eardrums. Will helped the man into one of the chairs in the starkly clean and beautifully furnished main area, settling him into a cushy wing chair. The doctor asked no questions at first, as he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He washed his hands and arms up to his elbows in a wash basin and then brought some supplies to the table next to the injured man, drawing up a stool to sit in front of him. 

“What is your name?” Dr. Lecter asked.

“J-Jimmy,” the man winced as the doctor gently pried his hand away from his face. 

Examining him thoroughly with his eyes, using a hand to tilt his chin this way and that, Hannibal offered what was probably supposed to be a kind smile. It was barbed around the edges. He was professional and neat, but didn’t beat around the bush or shoot the shit like Dr. Preston had. “Nothing is broken, Jimmy. The bleeding will stop soon. I will clean it up and then you can be on your way.” 

Will stood off to the side with his arms folded across his chest, watching curiously. Dr. Lecter flicked his gaze to him once before starting to mop up Jimmy’s face. 

“You don’t seem the type to start fights,” Dr. Lecter said.

“M’not,” Jimmy said. He tipped his head back at Dr. Lecter’s guidance. “I looked a second too long.”

“There are few things today’s man frowns upon so much. Unfortunately, a lingering gaze from a fellow man is one of them,” Dr. Lecter said pragmatically. He finished cleaning the wounds on Jimmy’s face, applying a salve to them with careful, elegant fingers. “I suggest a different evening activity.” 

“I’m passing through town,” Jimmy said with what sounded like a relieved sigh. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.” 

“And not a moment later. Doctor’s orders,” Dr. Lecter said as he wiped his fingers clean on a towel. His smile was no doubt reassuring to Jimmy, but Will could see that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Doc,” Jimmy said as he stood. He shook Dr. Lecter’s hand, then reached out for Will’s. Will stared at it for a moment before reluctantly taking it, his eyes somewhere near Jimmy’s nose. “Sheriff.”

“Safe travels.” 

Jimmy left the doctor’s office, the door swinging noiselessly shut behind him. Returning his arms to fold across his chest, Will looked around the newly remodeled space with interest. Dr. Preston had been a simple man, only caring about his work space being clean. This Dr. Lecter, however, seemed to also value aesthetics. Considering his dress, manner, and accent, Will wasn’t surprised. 

“I apologize for this being the first time we meet,” Dr. Lecter said to Will. Will still avoided his eyes. “You must be Sheriff Graham.” 

“I am,” Will said curtly. 

“It was rather kind of you to escort Jimmy to me,” the doctor noted. “Most people would have left him alone, including the sheriff.” 

“I’m not ‘most people’,” Will said through bared teeth. He turned his head to the side, staring at the wash basin on the far end of the room, doing his best to close off his body language. “How long have you been here?” 

“Only a week.”

That caused Will to clench his jaw in surprise, reassessing the room they were standing in. “You did this in a week?” 

“I had help, which I promptly shooed away upon completion.” 

Drumming his fingers on his bicep, Will shifted his weight idly from foot to foot, his spurs giving away the movement. He wasn’t a dirty man by any means, but he felt incredibly scrubby in Dr. Lecter’s office, elegance he hadn’t seen since he’d left home. He didn’t dress like a ruffian, but his black pants and vest gave him away with remnants of dust and dog fur. “Why are you here?” 

Dr. Lecter was quiet, perhaps surprised by the abrupt question.

“No one moves here, specifically,” Will said, tone still clipped. “This is a pass-through town. A stepping stone, unless you were born here. Boutta have a boom, but still a ways off.” 

“Where is your next stop, sheriff?” Dr. Lecter intoned. 

Finally turning his gaze to the doctor, Will narrowed his eyes, focusing on his smooth forehead and the nearly invisible hair on his strong brow bone. “Answer the question.”

“Answer mine,” the doctor said smoothly. He was absolutely unbothered by Will’s rudeness. He was static.

“I don’t have a next step.” 

“That’s a rather bleak outlook on the future.” A pause. “Dr. Preston mentored me, once.”

“I owe the former sheriff.”

Dr. Lecter slid his hands into the pockets of his neatly creased trousers. His entire demeanor projected calm and collectivity. The shadows cast from the light of the candles painted his shadows like demons dancing across the walls, his eyes flashing blood-red as Will finally met them. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

“No.” 

Unruffled, the smile that Dr. Lecter allowed to stretch his lips was nearly predatory. “I’m sure I will see you again, sheriff.” 

Not bothering to reply, Will turned to exit the doctor’s office. The door shut behind him, his spurs tinkled on the steps, and he didn’t stop until he was unhitching Winston from his post. The saloon was quiet, the streets were empty. Swinging up into the saddle, Will took one last glance to the doctor’s office, watching the candles on the main floor extinguish and throw the windows into darkness as light flickered into existence on the upper floor. 

Clicking his tongue, Will turned as Winston headed out toward home at a leisurely pace. 

Not one to seek out company in the first place, he figured he’d give the doctor a wide berth. Something didn’t seem right about him.

\--

“Sheriff!” 

Will looked up from the book he was reading, sending Deputy Zeller a cool glare. “What?” 

Zeller looked ruffled, his curly hair tousled. Breathlessly, he said, “Shoot out.” 

Clucking his tongue in annoyance, Will put the marker in his book and then set it on his desk. He picked up his hat and coat, slinging them both on as he followed Zeller out into the hot afternoon sun. It seemed that the antics that befell poor Jimmy a few nights ago left a lingering buzz in the air, some of the tougher crowd looking for trouble, something to scratch the itch. Automatically his fingers danced over his belt, ensuring he had bullets stored all the way around, at the same time expertly opening his gun where it sat in its holster to check the chamber. Finding everything satisfactory, he followed Zeller to town square, right outside the shabby mayor’s office. There was a large crowd; men, women, and children gathered to try and catch a glimpse of the impending fight. 

Two men stood opposite one another, forty paces apart. They had their hands on their holsters, glaring at one another in the midday sun. Legs in a wide stance, shoulders hunched up to their ears, they were deathly quiet. Whatever disagreement they’d had left no room for insults. Taking stock, Will assessed it was a romantic dispute. The gentleman with blond hair was likely having an affair with the brown-haired man’s wife, the evidence being the blond looking incredibly frightened and uncomfortable but firm, the other man looking furious beyond anything. Will thought he'd seen the blond with a pretty lady before.

“Names?” Will asked Zeller. 

“That one,” Zeller said quietly, pointing to the blond, “Jefferson. The other one’s Walt.” 

Feeling beyond his thirty-four years, Will stepped free from the circle of the crowd. The light from the sun caught on his sheriff badge, refracting gold into Jefferson’s eyes, causing him to blink and squint, his posture twitching. 

“Put away your weapons,” Will said in his most diplomatic voice. It wasn’t too far off from pissed, but he supposed he couldn’t be a saint. 

“Get lost, sheriff!” Walt growled. “This is between me n’ him.” 

Holding his hands to either side of him, one palm for each man, Will looked at Walt. “I don’t s’pose you’d ask your wife why she left your bed?” 

Walt’s jaw dropped open as the crowd gasped. Clearly no one knew the specifics of this duel, and Walt had no idea that Will would hit the nail on the head like that. Immediately, Walt grew even more furious. 

“Don’t you talk about my lady like that!” Walt’s hand swayed, trying to decide if it was worth it to point his gun at the sheriff. 

Sliding his gaze to Jefferson, Will was unsurprised to see the man more nervous than angry. A duel for her honor, in Jefferson’s eyes. He wasn’t mad at the predicament, but he was ready to win her fair and square. His finger quaked on the trigger. Stepping so that he stood right between them, Will turned his back to Jefferson and his gun so he could look Walt straight on. Walt blinked in confusion, then realized his gun was aimed directly at Will’s chest. He didn’t drop it. 

“Don’t stick yer nose where it don’t belong, pretty boy.”

Some of the crowd got visibly nervous at Walt’s words. Many of them remembered the bloodbath that was Will’s inauguration to the law. As a whole, the crowd took a few steps back to allow more room for the three men. The last man to call Will “pretty boy” was six feet under in the town cemetery.

Using his hands to part his unbuttoned jacket, Will casually passed his hand over his holstered Colt before slipping it into the pocket of his pants, the picture of relaxation. Walt’s gaze followed the movement, no doubt wondering how quick on the draw the sheriff would be. The brim of Will’s hat cast his eyes in shadow. “Go home, Walt, and let your lady do as she please.” 

“Let me get rid of our _marital problems_ -” Walt said with a sneer, “-and I’ll be on my merry way.” 

“I will not allow a shoot out,” Will said plaintively. 

“I ain’t gonna talk through my problems!” Walt cried with so much anger some spit fell from his lips. A vein bulged in his neck as he waved his gun around. “I’m gonna shoot that motherfucker, I’m gonna shoot him dead!” 

Quick as a whip, Will drew his Colt. In the blink of an eye he pulled the trigger, the crack of the gunshot echoing through the square. Walt fell to the ground with a pained howl, his gun clattering to the dirt as he clutched his thigh. Twirling his gun around his finger, Will holstered it and turned to Jefferson, who was white as a sheet. 

“I mustn’t encourage adultery, but I suggest you and Mrs. Walt pack up and leave town, Jefferson,” Will spoke only loud enough for Jefferson to hear the drawl in his voice, momentarily dropping his charade. 

The man nearly pissed himself as he turned and ran from the crowd. Sighing, Will walked toward where Walt was crying and moaning about his leg, squirming in a pool of blood. He tipped his hat up slightly so Walt could see his eyes; Will saw through him, all the way to his nasty, fetid core. He wanted nothing more than to bury him in pieces, but he refrained. 

Instead, he said, “You should see the doctor.”

“You shot me!” Walt cried. His face was a mess, bright red and covered in tears and snot. 

Will turned to a little boy who was staring at him, awe-struck. “Fetch Dr. Lecter.”

The boy grinned excitedly and shot off. Will picked up Walt’s gun, dusting it off and slipping it into the empty holster on the other side of his belt. Confiscated property, now. 

It took five minutes for Dr. Lecter to arrive. Today he was dressed impeccably in a taupe suit with sky blue accents, his hair severely slicked and the hollows of his eyes catching the light of the sun and turning them into deep ravines. In the middle of the day he was shadows. Will found himself intrigued. 

“My, my, Mr. Deeds,” Dr. Lecter chastised. He set his briefcase on the ground, looking at Walt with a sort of paternal disapproval. “What sort of trouble have we gotten ourselves into today?” 

“Shut up, foreigner,” Walt grunted. 

Kneeling next to the man, Dr. Lecter stuck his fingers directly into the bullet wound. Walt let out an inhuman cry of agony, body reduced to convulsions as he fell back into the dirt and spasmed in pain. Expression unchanging, Dr. Lecter withdrew his fingers to wipe them with a kerchief. “I should be able to extract the bullet easily enough. However, Mr. Deeds, I must inform you that I have no intention of being kind to someone so foul.” 

Unable to hide his smirk, Will scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Deputy Zeller and I can take him to your office, Doctor.” 

The lingering gaze Dr. Lecter passed over Will felt like a touch. His smile came off as pleasant, but Will saw fangs. “Lovely, sheriff. Allow me to pack his wound, and then we shall be on our way.” He opened his briefcase, making quick--and not gentle--work of stuffing gauze into Walt’s wound. He then stood, dusting off his knees idly as he did so. Snapping his briefcase shut, he sent Will and Zeller a prim nod before heading off to the office. 

“That’s the new doctor, huh?” Zeller said with a grin as he and Will went to either side of Walt, hauling him up roughly by the armpits. 

Will said nothing as they took Walt to Dr. Lecter’s building. Once inside they dropped Walt onto the couch Dr. Lecter gestured to, uncaring of Walt’s pained noise. Dr. Lecter finished prepping his surgery area, then gestured idly to Will. Understanding, Will then helped Dr. Lecter haul Walt up onto the table, Walt still alternating between whimpering and cursing. Holding him down so Dr. Lecter could cut his pants away, Will couldn’t help but dig his fingers into Walt’s shoulders.

“Don’t make this difficult,” he nearly growled. He was annoyed at this man’s movements and blubbering; his squirming was making it difficult for the doctor to work. 

Walt clenched his jaw, then thunked his head down on the table, closing his eyes tight. Satisfied, Will pulled a kerchief out of his jacket pocket to wipe his hands idly.

“Thank you, sheriff,” Dr. Lecter said. Standing on either side of Walt, they exchanged an odd look--amused on Dr. Lecter’s side, annoyed on Will’s. “I have it from here. You and Deputy Zeller may leave.” 

“I’ll stay,” Will said. Dr. Lecter looked surprised, which caused his gut to swoop uncomfortably. He worked his jaw, trying to form the words and letters properly. “He’s arrested. Needs to go to jail after.” 

Everyone in the town was used to Will’s stilted talking, or even lack thereof. Dr. Lecter, however, looked infinitely curious, and while he was static, Will could read the morse code of his interest in him between the fuzz. 

“Very well,” Dr. Lecter finally said. He nodded his chin past Will’s shoulder. “Have a seat. This should take me perhaps an hour.” 

Turning to nod at Zeller, who tipped his hat and made a swift exit, Will took a seat in one of the cushy chairs. He crossed his legs at the knee, settling back to watch the doctor work. Dr. Lecter’s hands were strong and steady as he used his tools to extract the bullet. Seeing him overwork the flesh, though, and watching how Walt cringed and cried about it, had Will hiding another smirk behind his hand. It seemed the doctor also found idiocy intolerable. Eventually, though, the wound was clean and Dr. Lecter was stitching it up. Will watched the doctor the entire time; how his frame shifted, how his hands and fingers worked, the expressions that passed over his features. 

Or rather, the few expressions that cracked his face at all. He was singularly focused, his mouth the only part of his features that moved--from a flat line, to relaxed, to pursed and back around again. The man was a mystery, though it’s not like Will had bothered to try and learn more about him. The silence was amiable, punctuated by little moans from Walt, which eventually quieted when Dr. Lecter slipped an unmarked bottle to his lips and had him take a drink. 

When Dr. Lecter was finished he gathered all of his bloody and dirty tools, taking them over to the wash basin. He dumped everything in it, using the water there to rinse his hands clean of blood. He moved to the wood stove in the corner, gathering kindling to light a fire, picking up the bucket full of water on the floor next to it to set atop the stove to boil. Will watched his broad back, how his shoulders moved, his waist pulled in neat by the waistcoat wrapped around him. 

“We shall let him rest for a bit,” Dr. Lecter said once he had most of his station cleaned. He turned a pleasant smile to Will. “Care for some tea?” 

Will’s gaze flickered to Walt. “What’d you give him?” 

“A trade secret,” Dr. Lecter winked. The action sent a chill down Will’s spine. “Will you join me?”

Figuring he had no other choice, since he had to take Walt to the station once he was awake, Will nodded. “Down here.” 

If Dr. Lecter was disappointed that Will didn’t want to go upstairs into his apartment, he didn’t show it. “I shall be right back.”

Alone in the doctor’s medical parlor, Will stood and slid his hands into his pockets. He still smelled faintly of gunpowder and dirt, a stark contrast to the potpourris Dr. Lecter had in various jars around the room, likely to combat any unsavory scents aroused by his practice. His feet silently carried him around, his eyes on a slow journey. A framed certificate from Johns Hopkins University was hanging on a wall along with a few other newspaper clippings, all with Dr. Lecter as the headline or subject. He was well-known and very successful. Strange for him to settle in this no-name town. His feet carried him toward the unlit hearth, the heat outside trying its best to seep inside. There were a few decorative baubles here and there, but no photos or anything personal to indicate who Dr. Lecter might be outside of his practice. Will supposed that information would be upstairs in the apartment. 

As he was rounding the rear of the parlor, eyes skimming over the various clean implements and tools organized meticulously, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Dr. Lecter announced himself. 

“An Earl grey,” Dr. Lecter’s smooth voice intoned. When Will turned to him, heart beating wildly in his throat, he saw that Dr. Lecter had fixed a whole tray.

“Thank you,” Will said, breathless and without any superficial pronunciation. He nearly flushed with realization, but Dr. Lecter said nothing as he turned to move to the front of the parlor, where two chairs and an attractive low table were set up. 

Sitting down, Dr. Lecter pointed out the milk and sugar. He doctored his own, the dishes fine China, then settled back in his chair. Will clumsily set about fixing his own tea, only adding sugar before he sat back as well.

“I have heard many interesting things about you, sheriff,” Dr. Lecter said. His tone inflected warmth, but his eyes were the color of blood. 

“Been researching?” Will asked gruffly, bringing his tea up for a sip. Not bad. He preferred coffee, but he wouldn’t be impolite. 

“Some of my patients bring you up on their own. Many beautiful young ladies.” Dr. Lecter’s tone was amused, his eyes and teeth sharp as he smiled. 

“Mm.” Opting not to answer, Will turned his gaze to Walt, who was still snoozing. 

“And men,” Dr. Lecter said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket so he could relax further, like a cat in the sun. Will’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t react otherwise. “Men that say they’d rather stay on your good side. You’ve made quite an impression in this town.” 

Will took a sip of his tea. Dr. Lecter seemed fine to have a one-sided conversation.

“I heard about your little massacre. Very impressive. You must have looked fierce in the moonlight.”

Narrowing his gaze, Will slid his eyes to Dr. Lecter, who was sipping his tea and wearing a mild expression. “The people of this town liken you to a beast of Native American legends.”

Snorting, Will couldn’t help himself as he let out a bitter chuckle. “Keeps them away from me.”

“And why do you want that?” 

Not answering, Will gently placed his cup on its saucer, and then put the dishware on the table. He still avoided Dr. Lecter’s gaze. “I’ll call Zeller back so he can help me take Walt to the jail. I’d rather he wake up behind bars.” 

“You hide yourself,” Dr. Lecter said softly, “in plain sight.” 

Standing, Will hesitated before finally meeting Dr. Lecter’s eyes. As much as he felt he could see of the doctor, he knew the doctor could see him, in turn. “It’s the best place to hide.” He moved to the door, reaching for the handle with one hand and adjusting his hat with the other, pausing when Dr. Lecter’s voice lilted.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Sheriff Graham.” 

Looking back to Dr. Lecter, Will gave a gentlemanly tip of his hat before exiting the shop. He wondered in what capacity the good doctor would like to see him in.

\--

Living just outside of town had its benefits and drawbacks. On the one hand, he was close enough to hear the bell toll, which was a long distance signal to alert Will and let him know that the sheriff was needed. Deputy Zeller lived in town, but he was more of a peacekeeper than a warden, which was fine by Will. He was close enough to keep an eye on the city from his porch, where he took his whiskey nightly; he could see lit buildings, could sometimes hear cheers and jeers depending on what was going on. It was a small town, but it was moving along with the times. There was a boom coming, Will knew. Art and entertainment and travel were well on the way to this sleepy corner of the plains. He’d be glad to see it. People caused trouble when they were bored.

Of course the drawback, however, would be that he’s too close to civilization. His dreams of becoming a mountain man were waylaid indefinitely--by his own doing, of course. He’d liked Jack, the lawman who took Will in when he was too tired to continue his journey. Offered room and board, food, honest work. When Jack had been killed avenging his death had seemed like the right and _just_ thing to do. He still felt that way. Only now, at the long end of the stick, he saw that it was short-sighted after all. 

He was stuck in this God forsaken town. 

Occasionally he thought about promoting Zeller and then going on his way. It wasn’t like he was attached to the townspeople, especially when he’d gone through so much effort to make sure that they couldn’t make heads or tails of him. Most of the people were afraid of him. The idiots, not so much. They wouldn’t be sad to see him go. 

The truth of the matter, in the whiskey-hazed moments he felt brave enough to dig that deep, was that he was… afraid of what he might become, if he cut off civilization. If he landed in beautiful solitude with no company save for his horse and dogs. If he built a house and lived off the land and spent the rest of his days among the myths of the mountains. If he _became_ a myth of the mountains. 

He supposed that there would be a happy medium, somewhere. That he could find a place removed from society, perhaps half a day’s ride to the nearest town where people and supplies were. If he knew where that gem existed he would be there already, but he’d left the bayou with an outdated map and not a single penny in his pocket. All he’d known after his pa died was that he wanted to get as far away from Louisiana as possible--he thought of going East, but it was too populated and advanced for him. So to the West it was, wild and dangerous and invigorating. Making the journey alone was a death sentence, a few people had said. 

So far he’d proved them wrong. Considering the life he’d set up here, he wondered how long that would last. Eventually he would paint a target on his back; eventually an outlaw would come into town, a sheriff killer and rapist and arsonist that would let his posse do as they please, an outlaw and his bandits that would decimate the town before moving on to the next. 

Will knew that if he truly settled here, his days would be numbered. Everyone in this town and the surrounding towns knew who he was. Word traveled fast of the mysterious sheriff with a twitchy trigger finger and the Devil in his eyes. It wasn’t what he’d intended his reputation to be, but it had been easy to maintain. No one questioned where he was from, or where he was going. Outside of law business, no one much talked to him at all, save for Zeller. To be frank, Will wasn’t interested in anyone either. 

However, the new doctor in town--the handsome foreign man who seemed to fix people with an almost supernatural talent, the man that the townspeople were loath to need, no one capable of outright trusting a foreigner with their maladies. Dr. Hannibal Lecter was as mysterious and disliked as Sheriff Will Graham, but he was at least honest about who he was.

Mostly.

Will knew that the man had a very careful persona stitched in place, a persona he showed the world to satisfy the masses. Will only knew because he himself had his own person suit stitched to his body, ill-fitting and graceless. They didn’t belong here. Perhaps they didn’t belong anywhere. Since the incident with Walt, Will gave the doctor’s office a wide berth and had managed to get away with it. He hadn’t needed the doctor for anything, he hadn’t injured someone and needed to take them to his office. He made sure there was no reason for their paths to cross. 

It wouldn’t last forever, small town as it was. 

But he’d do his damnedest. 

He felt how the doctor looked at him. Through him. Pinned him to the very floor he stood on for examination. If Will wasn’t careful, the doctor would know his secret. That he was a Cajun bayou boy, delicate and soft and with a lilting accent, filled to the brim with nightmares and hellish dark. That his hands were red and his heart was black, his teeth sharp and his skull adorned with horns. 

That he was exactly as evil as people thought he was.

There were many reasons Will wanted to leave Louisiana and go where no human had to deal with him. Where he didn’t have to deal with people--with their emotions and their thoughts and their judgments and how he couldn’t even look anyone in the eye without getting distracted, their life story blasting in his head like the voice of God. 

No one could see through his mask. No one could guess at the horrors that lurked in his brain, the darkness he fought with clenched teeth and fists and covered well with supposedly keeping the peace and keeping the so-called “bad guys” in check. 

When Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s eyes rested on him, Will felt his mask crack as though it was made of porcelain. 

It was a risk he couldn’t afford. 

\--

“Heya, _sheriff_.” 

Ticking his jaw, Will stayed hunched on his stool. He was sitting at the bar of the saloon having a whiskey and stew, forgoing the restaurant next door. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it--he preferred to keep company with the regular folks. He couldn’t think of a single item in his wardrobe clean enough or fancy enough to warrant him a seat at the restaurant, sheriff or not. 

Matthew Brown pulled up a stool next to him, his snake-like voice irritating Will immediately. Ignoring him, Will brought up another spoonful of stew, glaring down into it. He was without his hat, his usual shield from the world, the item placed politely on the bar next to his bowl. 

“Was thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ a trip to the river. I know you like fishin’. S’better with company.” 

“No,” Will replied stiffly. 

“I’m startin’ to think you don’t wanna be friends,” Matthew said with a mock pout. 

“Yes.”

“That hurts,” Matthew said, putting a hand dramatically over his heart. “I think it’d be good for you to have at least one friend in this town, sheriff. Deputy Zeller don’t count, I know you only tolerate him ‘cause he’s your partner.” 

Will didn’t reply. He took another spoonful of stew, his grip on the spoon white-knuckled. Matthew Brown wasn’t a troublemaker in the sense that he caused disturbances--no, he preferred to single Will out and try to get under his skin. It was easy for Will to tell that Matthew had some odd, twisted interest in him. Not romantic--though Will didn’t know what it would feel like to have someone have romantic feelings toward him--but a little… obsessive. He remembered Matthew Brown storming off when he deputized Brian Zeller, a dark, tangible cloud over his head. Why he thought he deserved to be deputy eluded Will even on his best days. 

Then again, politics in the wild west were a little over Will’s head anyway. In the bayou there were no politics. It was fend for yourself and help your neighbor. Rural enough that any trouble caused was dealt with swiftly. Will had deputized Zeller because he had been the only person to not run away when Will went feral. He’d had Will’s back, mounted on his horse and corralling the bandits to slaughter. He’d vomited after the fact, finally absorbing the bloodshed, but he’d also stayed by Will’s side. The next day when the mayor pinned Jack Crawford’s badge to Will’s vest, it had been second nature to pin the second, smaller badge to Zeller’s vest in turn. He was a damn good partner. Didn’t ask unnecessary questions, did as he was told, stayed out of Will’s way. 

Matthew Brown wouldn’t be any of those things. Will hadn’t even known who he was until he’d seen him break off from the gathered crowd on inauguration day. Even then, he’d barely thought about him. 

Then, Matthew started inserting himself into Will’s life. Trying to stop him for a chat, trying to join him for a drink or lunch. Chatting him up and determined to weasel his way into Will’s supposed “circle”. It was laughable, really. Matthew seemed to be of the impression that Will needed someone on his side. 

He didn’t need anyone, let alone a weak, slithering man like Matthew Brown. 

“C’mon, sheriff. Go fishin’ with me. Gimme some tips, I know you’re good.” 

Will’s icy gaze snapped to Matthew’s. “How do you know.” 

Matthew’s smile was grease and oil. “I’ve watched you.” 

Will’s entire body tensed and coiled, ready to attack. Matthew Brown, following him around and stalking him and spying on him, gathering information about him and probably even following him out to his house to watch him and his damn dogs. Rage filled Will’s veins. He needed to do away with Matthew. Wring him dry and dump him in the river he so badly wanted to fish in. 

The tips of his boots touched the floor, the spurs jingling softly. Between one blink and the next a large hand rested on Will’s shoulder, sparks crackling in the contact as his rage spluttered and spread and slowed in its intensity. Spice and citrus wafted into his senses and he knew immediately it was the good doctor holding him in place on his stool.

“Sheriff,” Dr. Lecter’s voice was a balm. It didn’t put out the fire, but it soothed it. “My last patient left early. We could start our meeting now, if you like.” 

The cogs in Will’s brain clunked and fell apart as he absorbed Dr. Lecter’s words. He looked up to the man, so out of place in the dingy saloon wearing his tailored suit. He was smiling cordially at Will, the point of contact between them absorbing all the anger in Will’s veins and dispersing it like scattered embers. Dr. Lecter was offering Will an out before he publicly maimed Matthew Brown.

Matthew, for his part, looked a mixture of annoyed, confused, and roaringly jealous. He stared at Dr. Lecter’s hand on Will’s shoulder, then put on a fake cheerful smile. “Dr. Lecter. So nice to see you amongst the common folk.” 

When Dr. Lecter turned his smile to Matthew, he grew fangs. “You must be Matthew Brown. I recommend coming in for a checkup before my books get full. When the season turns I will only be taking patients exhibiting signs of sickness.”

Matthew looked a little disoriented that the doctor knew his name, but he covered it up quick enough. “Sure, doc.” He flicked his gaze to Will, who was still tense and coiled, but held on a leash like a dog. Matthew smirked. “See you later, sheriff.” 

With Matthew gone, Dr. Lecter withdrew his hand. Tension bled out of Will like a stuck pig, his posture slumping a bit with the sudden depletion of energy. Dr. Lecter perched himself on the stool Matthew vacated, the smile on his lips polite but the look in his honey eyes knowing. 

“I’ve seen him around. Quite a nosy boy.” 

“Yeah,” Will agreed. The physical contact with Dr. Lecter lingered. He took another bite of stew, wishing he could ignore the doctor’s presence like he could so many others. But the doctor was too large to hide from, pressing into every nook and cranny. He suffocated everything around him except Will.

“He seems quite interested in you.” There was an odd edge to Dr. Lecter’s voice that caused Will to let out a mirthless laugh. Dr. Lecter unbuttoned his jacket. “At least, he’s brave enough to showcase his interest.”

“You mean stupid enough,” Will replied gruffly. 

“Perhaps,” Dr. Lecter conceded. “I think dear Mr. Brown yearns for familiar company.” 

That caused Will to slide his gaze to the doctor. His stew finished, he put the spoon neatly in the bowl before pushing it away from himself. Shifting on his stool, he gave the illusion of opening up his body language by allowing his knees to part and his shoulders to relax, an elbow resting on the bartop as he regarded the doctor coolly. It was nearly seductive. He dropped the falsities of the accent he wore for the citizens of the town, allowing Dr. Lecter to hear the richness of his Cajun bayou accent. “Not quite sure I like what you’re implying.” 

Dr. Lecter’s eyes flashed. “Darkness seeks the shadows, Sheriff Graham.” 

For some reason that sentence didn’t sit any better with Will than if the doctor had implied something about his sexuality. Perhaps they were equally disturbing. Not that Will felt his own preferences to be any sort of devilish, but they weren’t exactly something to be paraded. It seemed as though Dr. Lecter noticed both things about Will--the darkness and the deviance. It made Will feel flayed, like flakes of his skin were being peeled off by Dr. Lecter’s sharp teeth. And yet, Will didn’t want to run. He instead leaned in toward the doctor, allowing a small smirk to curl his lips, flashing his teeth, not dissimilar to a cornered wild beast. 

“The light doesn’t reach your eyes, Dr. Lecter.” 

A salacious smile spread Dr. Lecter’s full lips, predatory in return. “No, Sheriff Graham. It does not.” Dr. Lecter then stood, fastening the button of his coat as he stepped out of Will’s space, the vacuum of his presence disappearing and allowing Will to take in an entire lungful of air tinged with spice and citrus. “Perhaps you should take Matthew Brown fishing after all. I am sure he’s… dying to see you at work.” 

Dr. Lecter left as swiftly as he had come. Smiling to himself, Will scrubbed his napkin over his mouth, then dropped some coins on the counter. He grabbed his hat, donning his armor as he too left the saloon. In the midday sun the hustle and bustle of the small town sounded like an orchestra. He wondered if, after spending so much time here, the silence and solitude of the mountains would suit him after all.

Certainly not if he would be without Dr. Lecter. 

He was slowly starting to pull back the curtains on that one.

\--

Will never got the chance to take Matthew fishing. The next time he saw him took him by surprise, when Matthew strode up to where Will was standing on the porch of the sheriff’s office, sipping on some coffee and watching the early-risers move about the town. He opened his mouth, the invitation on his tongue, and got swiftly derailed when Matthew hopped up the steps and grabbed him by the left shoulder with one hand, driving a knife into his right. Will’s knees buckled with pain, a surprised noise leaving his lips as he dropped his coffee, the tin cup clattering on the wood and staining it dark. Hot pain bloomed from the stab wound, amplifying when Matthew followed him down to the ground, twisting the knife as he went.

“If I can’t have you,” the man hissed, venomous and obsessive, “no one can!” 

Caught by surprise, it took a second for Will’s brain to clear and understand what was happening. Matthew Brown was going to kill him, right in front of the sheriff’s office, where Zeller was inside writing reports while the rest of the town was still waking up. Clenching his teeth, Will reached up to fist Matthew’s vest, holding him close to try and prevent him from withdrawing the knife from his shoulder to go for another stab. He couldn’t draw his gun from his hip like this. He’d need to use brute force. 

With pain crackling across his collarbone and down the length of his arm, Will let the fingers of his right hand lock on Matthew’s vest, knowing that arm would be useless now. He slid his left hand up to Matthew’s face, attempting to dig his fingers into his eyes, but Matthew leaned away from him and turned his head. Using his non-dominant hand wasn’t going to do him any good, Will realized. 

This couldn’t be how he went down. 

His leg lifted to wrap around Matthew’s, his calf flexing to jerk his foot up to Matthew’s ass, rolling his hips at the same time to use the momentum and flip their position. Matthew’s grip loosened on the knife handle, that spare second all Will needed to butt the crown of his head into Matthew’s nose. The man fell back, blood cascading down his face as he let out a surprised cry of pain. Head throbbing, Will shook it clear as Matthew fell to the porch with a thunk. Reaching up to grasp the knife, Will yanked it out of his shoulder with barely a noise, blood arcing through the air as he dropped to his knees and swung the knife expertly, slicing cleanly through Matthew’s belly. Now Matthew was howling in pain, animalistic noises that finally started to draw people’s attention. Will put his foot on Matthew’s shoulder, kicking him down to the ground and pinning him there. 

Through all the pain, Matthew laughed maniacally, hands scrabbling to grab at Will’s shin, pinning his foot in place on his shoulder. “Beautiful! You’re beautiful!” 

Zeller burst through the swinging doors just in time to see Will slice cleanly through Matthew’s jugular, the spray of blood covering Will’s head, neck and chest. Panting with exertion and adrenaline, Will waited for the last threads of life to spill from Matthew’s jerking body, watching his eyes go dead. Straightening, Will wiped the knife on his bloodied shirt, slipping it into the empty holster on his belt. A crowd had gathered, silent and terrified. 

“Christ, Will, what happened?” Zeller asked. 

Will’s lips twitched and curled over his teeth with obvious, unfettered disdain. His accent was rough and clumsy as he said, “He wanted to be my friend.” 

The crowd scattered at those words. In the back of his mind Will knew that a town shouldn’t be terrified of their sheriff, but he knew that they also considered themselves safe with a chained beast. Stumbling back a bit, Will grimaced as his shoulder throbbed in pain. 

“Let’s clean this up.” He bent, grabbing Matthew by the ankles. Zeller stuttered into action, grabbing the body under its armpits. Together they hefted Matthew off of the porch, Will’s shoulder protesting the whole time. They shuffled quickly to the local undertaker’s shop, a building that outfitted coffins and helped with burials. The man himself came out, someone having probably tipped him off. He frowned at Matthew’s desecrated corpse, then sighed and waved Will and Zeller around to the back of the building. They dropped his body off there, then allowed themselves to be shooed away. 

“You need to go see the doctor,” Zeller said.

“I’m aware,” Will replied. “He needs to report on the body.” 

“You’re alive, he should tend to you first,” the deputy argued. 

Will sent him a glare. Zeller shrunk back, but only a fraction. He was the only one brave enough to go toe to toe with Will, an honest and a decently intelligent man. Zeller rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up. 

“I’ll start on cleaning the porch. Lord knows we don’t need people seeing blood stains on our doorstep.” 

They parted, Will smirking to himself. The walk to the doctor’s was short. He rapped on the closed door, then put that hand over his wound, applying pressure. The blood had slowed in its flow, but he knew it was only a matter of time for him to get woozy from the pain, which was now creeping up on him without the distraction of something to occupy himself. 

The door opened. Dr. Lecter was dressed down, his suit jacket missing and an apron tied around his waist. Today’s ensemble was crimson with an interesting, busy pattern. His dark gaze went from head to toe, taking in every detail as he went; the blood spatters, the knife wound, the weak knees. He licked his lips, then stood aside to gesture for Will to enter. 

“Was Matthew Brown a good fisherman?” Dr. Lecter asked. 

“He was the fish,” Will murmured. Dr. Lecter’s office was impeccable as usual.

“And he bit back,” Dr. Lecter matched the tone of his voice. 

Turning, Will felt his breathing start to come short. He wasn’t sure what was where Matthew stabbed, anatomically. Could just be shoulder meat, could be something vital. He pulled his palm away from the wound, the fabric of his shirt sticking for a second before falling away with a sick, wet noise. 

“I think you would be more comfortable upstairs,” Dr. Lecter said. Without waiting for a reply, he shut the door to his office. He locked it, fixed the bolt, and then turned the hanging sign in the window from “open” to “come back later”. He gestured with his hand for Will to precede him up the stairs in the back corner. Will went without protest, thankful for the doctor ascending behind him. If he fell, it would be backwards, and he knew the doctor would catch him. 

At the top of the stairs he opened the door to Dr. Lecter’s apartment and nearly lost the breath he didn’t have. It was aristocratic and beautiful, reflecting what was surely Dr. Lecter’s European tastes. The walls were dark blue, the wainscoting black. The furniture was handcrafted and beautifully upholstered in muted floral patterns, some velvet and some silk. The floorplan was divided elegantly and in a manner that didn’t feel claustrophobic. Dr. Lecter led Will to the washroom where a beautiful claw-footed porcelain tub rested, the gold fixtures gleaming in the soft light filtering through the gossamer curtains on the window. Dr. Lecter’s apartment was fitted with a plumbing system, but Will hardly had the sense of mind to be jealous. The faucet started pouring steaming water, lavender and eucalyptus filling the space and his senses. 

“Will.” Dr. Lecter’s hands cupped either side of Will’s bloody face, a clinical gleam in his eyes as he looked at Will’s pupils. “I’m going to undress you. You need washed.” 

Nodding stiffly, Will let out a breathless pant as Dr. Lecter unbuttoned his vest and then unceremoniously tugged his clothes off of his shoulders, exposing his stab wound and the curve of his collarbone. Dr. Lecter was strong and fastidious, though his fingers lingered slightly as he divested Will of his clothes. Once he was naked Dr. Lecter guided him to sit in a wooden chair, the sound of running water drowning out Will’s thoughts. 

He’d killed again. Though not unprovoked, he’d done it. It was a byproduct of his job, he knew; killing people wasn’t totally avoidable. It wasn’t as though he _wanted_ to kill people.

However… he’d wanted to kill Matthew Brown. In the saloon when the other man had approached him like the snake to Eve, Will could have laid him out right there, gutted him on the bartop. If Dr. Lecter hadn’t intervened…

Coming back to himself, Will watched as Dr. Lecter turned off the taps. Steam rose from the bath, Dr. Lecter testing the temperature with his beautiful fingers. He dipped a cloth in the water before he approached Will, one hand tipping his chin up while the other gently dragged the cloth over his face. 

“How do you feel?” Dr. Lecter asked. 

“Vindicated,” Will breathed. 

Dr. Lecter cleaned his face gently in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, as most silences were. Many people didn’t know how to fill the space between themselves and Will Graham, but Dr. Lecter didn’t seem bothered by such trivialities. Will appreciated it. The cloth moved from Will’s face down the column of his neck. Dr. Lecter kept Will’s head braced with strong fingers on his chin. Will’s lashes fluttered with exhaustion, the adrenaline having left him bit by bit until he was finally free of it. Dr. Lecter cleaned him with the care of a lover rather than the care of a doctor, but Will found he didn’t mind. He’d never been handled so gently before. Dr. Lecter’s hands and touch were grounding, preventing Will from floating away to the dark recesses of his mind that usually consumed him after a kill. Closing his eyes, Will imagined the vision of Dr. Lecter in front of him. 

Tall. Broad. Lips relaxed in a fond smile, eyes hot coals. Backlit, the shadows dancing across his features accentuated his high cheekbones and strong jaw. Will had thought that he had been harboring the Devil since he’d been a little boy, wrought with the emotions of others and plagued by the darkness that followed him around. 

Leaning slightly into Dr. Lecter’s touch, he opened his eyes when the cloth wiped gently over the stab wound, eliciting a shiver. Their gazes met. 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was the Devil he held. 

“Into the bath,” Dr. Lecter said softly. 

He helped Will stand from the chair. The stickiness of the blood, though cleaned away, left his skin uncomfortably tacky. With strong arms Dr. Lecter helped Will into the steaming hot bath, Will hissing in surprise as he was lowered. He’d never had a bath so hot--he usually let his boiled water cool to a tolerable temperature. It felt incredible. Very carefully Dr. Lecter helped Will lean against the curve of the tub, a towel in place to keep Will from fully submerging should his body want to slide down into the water. His wound throbbed with the temperature change. Now Dr. Lecter smoothed the cloth over his skin idly, blooms of crimson coloring the fragrant water. He knelt next to the tub, always keeping one point of contact with Will. 

Guiding Will to lean forward, Dr. Lecter washed his hair with soap, something fancy judging by the bottle Will snuck a peek of. It smelled heavenly and coupled with the massage Dr. Lecter gave his scalp as he worked the product in, Will felt his consciousness slipping. Not because of the pain of his stab wound or the adrenaline hangover--but because he was so… relaxed. Like he’d never been before. 

The shadows surrounded him, the darkness enclosed, and for once it didn’t feel suffocating. 

“A human’s initial response to darkness is to seek the light,” Dr. Lecter said, his melodious voice floating over Will as he washed him. “When the sun sets, we sleep. When the sun rises, we awaken. We harness fire to keep our minds at ease when we cannot avoid the darkness. It is a survival instinct. The things hidden in the dark, the unknown… we believe we can use the light to drive them away.” He tipped Will’s head and helped him sink down a fraction so the suds could be rinsed from his curly locks. “Mankind’s biggest enemy is the darkness within himself. Mankind’s strongest tool… is learning how to wield it.” 

Will’s heavy lids opened, his head tilted at the right angle to peer up at Dr. Lecter. The smile on the man’s face could only be explained as fond. 

“You’ve mastered the darkness, Will. What will you do with it?” 

“I’ve mastered nothing,” he replied. “In the aftermath I am weak.” 

“You are only weak because you are with me,” Dr. Lecter said simply. “Had you chosen to carry on with your daily duties--had you chosen to pour whiskey on your wound and patch it up yourself, your legs would have held you upright. Your conscience would have stayed alert. You could have gone home and with a full night’s rest been ready to return to work in the morning.” Dr. Lecter’s fingers, now free of suds, traced down the sides of Will’s jaw tenderly as he held his gaze. “Why, then, did you choose to be with me?” 

Will searched Dr. Lecter’s gaze. He saw himself reflected there--he saw his own darkness, his own shadows, entangling with the other man’s. Bravely, he said the first thing that came to mind. His voice trembled, nearly a whisper. “Because I want to be weak.” 

“We are just alike,” Dr. Lecter said softly. 

Feeling drowsiness take over, Will let his lashes flutter until his eyes drifted closed. Surrounded by Dr. Lecter’s scent, more comfortable than he’d ever been in his entire life, Will let himself succumb to the darkness.

It was more welcoming than ever.

\--

Waking up was never something Will was terribly fond of. It was a necessary thing. If he even had the chance to actually fall asleep and get rest, rare as it was, Will never wanted it to end. In the brief periods of rest his overactive brain decided to give him he found himself unwilling to let go of that comfortable sleep. Laying on the mattress just right, his body positioned just so, the comforting sounds of his pack sleeping around his bed, watching guard. When he didn’t feel as though his bed was a prison, he never wanted to leave it. 

The bed he was currently tucked into felt nothing like a prison. It was soft in all the right places, the blankets heavy enough to weigh him down and encourage him to stay where he was. The room was dark, not even a candle lit. Outside of the window in the dark sky Will could see the light of the moon. Spice and citrus wafted into his senses, causing him to realize that he was asleep in Dr. Lecter’s bed. Sitting up, wincing at the dull throb in his shoulder, Will pulled the borrowed nightshirt aside to look at the beautifully dressed wound. Glancing around the room, Will let out a breath. The heat of the day was trapped, encouraging him to lie back down and burrow under the blankets to continue sleeping.

The thought of Dr. Lecter being close negated those thoughts easily. Uncovering himself from the pile of blankets, he stood and smoothed down the nightshirt. He hunted around in the dark, feeling around the bed and the nearby chairs; on the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed he discovered neatly folded clothes. He pulled on the pants and shirt, folding up the nightshirt in turn and setting it down. Ruffling his hair, feeling it cleaner than it’s ever been, Will quietly found his way to the door. When he opened it he heard a fire crackling and smelled food, his feet drawing him toward them before he could even think. 

In the main area Dr. Lecter was sitting in a beautiful, soft-looking chair, a book in his hand as he read by the light of the oil lamp on the table next to him. The room was lit with the assistance of wall sconces outfitted with burning oil, the dining table on the opposite end set with dishware and a candelabra lit charmingly in the center. Upon hearing Will’s entrance Dr. Lecter looked up from his book, offering a small, sincere smile. 

“Good evening, Will.”

“Dr. Lecter,” Will greeted, still a little stiff with his words. 

“Please,” blood-red eyes twinkled, “call me Hannibal.” 

Will didn’t. 

Hannibal closed his book, setting it on the table next to his chair. He stood, wearing linen pants and a soft shirt, a black silk robe with an oriental pattern hanging from his shoulders. He crossed to the dining table, gesturing for Will to have a seat as he took one himself. Aware of the elegance Hannibal inspired simply by existing, Will walked on quiet, bare feet to the table where a dinner was spread. A roasted fowl of some kind along with plenty of vegetables and a thick, rich-smelling sauce was displayed beautifully. Hannibal sat not at the head but on the other side of where Will chose to sit, sending the sheriff a warm smile. The room was well-lit, but there was always a slight hollow in the man’s orbital bones. 

“How do you feel?” 

Automatically reaching up to feel his injured shoulder, Will shrugged with the opposite one. “I’ve had worse.” His tired mouth didn’t even try to harshen his consonants and sharpen his vowels. He spoke in his true voice, in the true pitch as he watched Hannibal carve the breast from the fowl and place it neatly on Will’s plate. 

“You look well rested.”

“I am,” Will said honestly, doing his best to keep the bite out of his voice. Hannibal served him the meat and vegetables, what Will assumed was the proper portion, then picked up the gravy boat to artfully drizzle the sauce over everything. He murmured, “Smells good.” 

“Roasted duck and vegetables, and a warm beet salad,” Hannibal announced with no little flourish. He sat down, picking up his fork and knife and sending Will a sated smile. He looked like a satisfied cat, belly full of mice. 

Very carefully, Will cut into the meat and swirled it around in the red sauce. He brought it to his mouth, inhaling the scent quietly before parting his lips and placing it on his tongue. He felt Hannibal’s gaze zero in on him, reducing the world to nothing but the two of them at the dinner table together. Tasting the flavors exploding on his tongue, Will chewed the tender meat slowly, savoring. Exhaling slowly, he lifted his gaze to Hannibal, unsurprised to see the man watching him. “It’s delicious.” 

Something relaxed in Hannibal at the admission. “I hosted many dinner parties back home. I miss them dearly.”

“Folks in this town aren’t really the dinner party type,” Will said wryly. 

“Indeed they are not,” Hannibal smiled. 

They could almost pretend they were two normal people having a normal dinner and conversation. They ate in comfortable silence, the only sound being the cutlery moving across the plate. There was a glass on the table for wine that he ignored in favor of the water next to it, hydrating his mouth and throat as he ate. The food was phenomenal--Will had never tasted anything like it. A simple meal, really, it wasn’t like he’d never had duck or vegetables. But the way it had been prepared and presented… He thought back to Hannibal opening the door with an apron slung around his waist, and came to the conclusion that Hannibal had been hard at work all day working on the meal. Whether or not he’d been prepared to share with anyone was anyone’s guess. Many people often cooked generous portions to be rationed out over a few days. 

He didn’t figure Hannibal to be the type, though. 

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal said once their plates were cleared. The doctor was clearing them away, bustling with the grace of a servant. “Why did you leave your home?” 

No one had asked Will that question since he left. No one cared. Moreover, most people were too scared to strike up general conversation with him. Sitting back in his chair to watch Hannibal curiously, Will said, “Because I wanted to.” 

“Were you driven to desertion, or did you have a goal in mind?” Hannibal spoke over his shoulder as he went into the kitchen.

Unsure why he even felt the need to answer Hannibal’s questions, Will shrugged. His fingers reached out to fidget with the stem of the wine glass. “I… both.” 

Hannibal returned to the table with two new plates, beautiful slices of apple pie set neatly on them. He set a plate in front of Will, then sat down with his own, pushing a clean fork toward Will. His silence was polite, but it was also an invitation. 

Picking up his fork, Will idly tapped it on the table so he didn’t destroy the pretty slice of pie in front of him. “I want to go as far West as I can. Into the mountains. Build a cabin… and never see another soul again.” 

“I have heard that the West is like a fairy tale,” Hannibal said, “with beauty beyond comprehension.” 

Nodding, Will finally took a bite of the pie. It, of course, was incredible. 

“Why do you crave solitude?” 

“I have a busy mind,” was the best way to describe it, he felt. 

“You’ve built a fort to protect it,” Hannibal noted. “It would make sense to build a literal one, off in the mountains.” 

“There was an… incident, back home,” Will said slowly. He wasn’t keen on divulging the details, so he said, “I killed for the first time, and then I left.” 

The tiny inhale Hannibal sucked in wouldn’t have been audible to anyone else, but Will was attuned to him like a lightning rod. It made his pulse quicken. He took another bite of pie. 

“Were you ashamed?” Hannibal asked, that courteous tone back in place. 

“No,” Will said easily. “But I should have been.”

“Taking a life is never easy,” Hannibal conceded, eyes tracking over Will’s features carefully. “Were you concerned that it was _too_ easy?” 

Cutting his gaze to the side, Will’s fingers tensed and loosened on the fork in his hand. “What’s easy, Dr. Lecter, is knowing what makes a person tick. Seeing all the way into their head until you hit the back door and come out on the other side. Feeling everything they feel. There are people that don’t feel so bad. And there are others that…” he tapped his fork against the flaky, delicious crust of the pie, “... aren’t so tasty.” 

“And those are the ones that linger on your tongue like burnt bread,” Hannibal surmised. 

“Sometimes I don’t know where I end and the darkness begins,” Will said honestly. He still couldn’t look Hannibal in the face. 

“Perhaps the distinction isn’t important,” the doctor suggested. He took a slow sip of his wine, licking his red lips, Will’s eyes drawn to the motion. “Hades guarded the underworld. He was a god--a king. He symbolized fertility and riches. Through the centuries he became misunderstood; caricatured as a demon, even the Devil himself. Hades and Hell became one in the same.” He swirled his glass, contemplating the crimson liquid inside with his equally crimson eyes. “But those perceptions do not change the fact that Hades was a god. He was both the darkness, and the one who protected it.” 

Quietly, Will absorbed Hannibal’s words. He took another bite of pie, then another, and did not stop until his plate was clean. He finally picked up the untouched glass of wine, swirling it curiously before taking a sip. It was pungent and sharp, wrinkling his nose. It wasn’t terrible, as far as alcohol went, but he was unsure if he could savor it in the way Hannibal clearly did, who sat patiently across him. 

“I’m not a god,” Will finally said aloud, decisively. 

Letting it rest, Hannibal stood from the table to clear that round of dishes. When he returned he had a bottle of whiskey and a glass tumbler, gesturing for Will to follow him to where the chairs were positioned in front of the fireplace. They sat, Will thanking Hannibal quietly for the fingers of whiskey. Unlit, the hearth was a yawning black hole in front of them, framed by dark polished wood and fragrant garland made of braided sedges and yellow evening primrose. Hannibal’s corner of this no-name town was class and elegance, a storybook one could step into. Settling deeper into the chair, Will sipped at the whiskey. It was smooth and bright--nothing like the swill in the saloon. 

“Will you stay the night?” Hannibal murmured quietly. “So I may monitor your wound.” 

Will couldn’t help but let a smirk tick the corner of his lips up. “Are you unsure if I’ll make it to morning?” 

Mirroring the playful expression, the shadows around Hannibal fluttered and spread before convalescing around his shoulders in a shroud. “That would be the appropriate answer.” 

Feeling bold, his blue eyes meeting Hannibal’s, Will’s voice dropped to an intimate level. “And the inappropriate one?” 

“You needn’t see into my mind to know it,” the doctor hummed, holding Will’s gaze. 

“I don’t see into your mind,” Will murmured, his gaze turning curious as he catalogued Hannibal’s face and the expression he was wearing. “I can’t.” 

Bringing his glass to his lips for a sip, Hannibal didn’t break eye contact. “You’re capable of anything, Will.” 

Forgoing frustration and settling for mildly exasperated, Will took a drink of whiskey and returned his gaze to the empty hearth. “I’ll go home tonight, doctor. If any complications arise I will return promptly.” 

Unoffended, Hannibal nodded his head in acquiescence. They finished their respective drinks and when they stood, Hannibal fastened the sash of his ornate robe. His hair was free of product, falling attractively across his forehead. He was still sharp and dangerous, but he was newly beautiful as he walked Will to the door. He’d cleaned Will’s boots and spurs and promised that the rest of his clothes would be good as new tomorrow afternoon, citing that as a doctor he had quite a few stain removal recipes. He lent Will a jacket of his own, draping it over Will’s shoulders. His palms lingered, heavy and warm. Will did his best to not press into them. 

“Thank you for your company tonight, Will,” Hannibal said when they made their way downstairs to the shop door. 

Will demurred. “It wasn’t company.” 

“Even so.” Hannibal lifted a hand carefully, slowly, telegraphing his movements as he tucked a stray curl behind Will’s ear. The touch brought a shiver, Will furrowing his brow slightly at the other man. “You needn’t hide yourself from me. When your mask grows too heavy, you may place it on my dinner table.”

Will was fully aware that Hannibal knew he was the only person in this town to know the real Will--or get as close to it as possible. Sometimes Will wasn’t sure if he knew who he was, himself. The offer to hang up his armor and be himself was sorely tempting. He knew, though, in doing that in the beast’s lair, danger lurked. He hesitated for just a moment, torn between leaning into Hannibal’s touch and pulling away, before he settled on reaching up to gently run his fingers down the fine silk of Hannibal’s robe. 

“Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

The door closed with a soft click behind him. It was well past midnight. Warm in the borrowed clothes and cleaner than he’s been since--well, probably his entire life--Will meandered through the town. Zeller would have taken Winston to Will’s barn hours ago, and he was thankful for that. The walk to his home would take about half of an hour, time spent blissfully blank.

For the first time since leaving the bayou, his brain was quiet. The shadows following him home felt like company.

\--

When the so-called hustle and bustle of town did more harm than good Will retreated into the sheriff’s office. It was sparsely decorated and more functional than any sort of good looking; Jack Crawford had been a no-nonsense man. Will had never been into making things look pretty, so he left it exactly as Jack had preferred it. Two desks--one for him and one for Zeller--a bench along one of the walls, a few chairs. There was a wood burning stove in the corner with a utility table next to it that had been relegated to brewing coffee and heating up food, a wash basin next to it. There were tall, narrow chests of drawers that had any and all records kept of disturbances, the contents of which Will had immediately organized upon his promotion. It was purposeful, and that was all Will needed it to be. A door led to an attached building, iron bars separating three jail cells.

Will didn’t really have any sort of set routine. He tried not to. The humdrum would surely drive him crazy. Well--crazier than he already considered himself. He always had his coffee on the porch, and from there pondered how he should spend the rest of his day. The schedule of being sheriff was neither here nor there; if there was a certain charge amongst the townspeople he would hang about. If things were calm, he’d put Zeller in charge and wander, usually to his favorite fishing hole. This pass-through town wasn’t small but it wasn’t huge. He was thankful for it all the same. 

Today Will was seated at his desk, reading various newspapers that had been brought in by travelers from different places. He liked to keep up on the goings on outside of town, a little part of him wanting to take note of when, perhaps, would be the best time for him to cut tail and run. It could be any day, he supposed, inspired by any bit of news. For two years he hadn’t been inspired. And yet, he continued to read the papers. 

A polite rap on the doorframe had him looking up from where he’d been reclined in the comfiest chair in the house. Upon seeing Hannibal in the doorway carrying a cooking pot with a lid, Will frowned and folded up _The Boston Chronicle_. 

“Dr. Lecter.” 

Hannibal held up the pot, hands covered with a towel. “I brought lunch.” 

Doing his best to look unimpressed, Will cleared his desk of the papers and booklets. He stood when Hannibal approached, fetching dishware and cutlery, returning to the table just in time for Hannibal to lift the lid off of the pot and expose the delicious fragrance from inside. 

“Sausage gumbo,” Hannibal said, just as the familiar spices threaded through Will’s senses. “Acquiring shrimp is quite the feat this far inland, so I’m afraid it is without.” 

“Hannibal,” Will breathed in surprise. The age-old comforting scent of gumbo fuzzed his head slightly. He was aware of using Hannibal’s first name, but neither of them commented on it. “You made this for me.” 

“Specifically, yes,” Hannibal said with no shame. He pulled over a chair, then pulled a ladle from where it had been hooked on his belt to start dishing both their bowls, filling them up. 

Sitting down once more, Will licked his lips. He speared a piece of sausage immediately, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste. Narrowing his eyes, his accusation was almost playful as he looked up at Hannibal. “This is andouille.” 

“I’ve been informed that gumbo simply cannot be enjoyed without it. I smoked and seasoned it myself.” Hannibal said neatly. Once their bowls were full he put the lid back on the pot, scooting it to the end of Will’s desk so they could see each other fully as they ate. 

Picking up his bowl to hold it close to his chest as he ate, Will knew his table manners would irritate the doctor, but he couldn’t care. This felt… sacred. “Why did you make this for me?” 

“I enjoy cooking for others,” Hannibal reminded him. Bordeaux eyes looked at the way Will was none too politely shoveling the gumbo into his mouth. “You in particular have an honest enjoyment for my creations.” 

Allowing a chuckle, Will pushed some of the food around with his spoon. “I’m not a terrible cook. I just don’t like it.” 

“The food at the saloon is…” Hannibal seemed to struggle in finding a word to describe it. 

“Edible,” Will said wryly, before taking another bite. 

Smiling fondly, Hannibal nodded. “Indeed.” He gestured to the papers Will had stacked on a different chair. “Those are all newspapers from back east.” 

Glancing over at them, Will licked his lips and shrugged. “I like to know what’s going on in the world. Most of the people passing through just have old papers from the big cities, though.”

“In order to learn of the world one must experience it,” Hannibal said wisely, blowing delicately on his spoon. Ridiculous, Will thought. The gumbo was the perfect temperature. 

“I won’t be doing that any time soon,” Will said. He stared down into his gumbo thoughtfully. “You’ve seen much more than I.” 

“I traveled a long way to be in America,” Hannibal agreed. 

“Where did you come from?” 

“Many places,” the doctor said, evasively. “My favorite was Italy.” 

Sensing that the good doctor wouldn’t be divulging much information about his mysterious past, Will refrained from asking any other questions about it. He took another bite of food, “You must have been to the South to know a gumbo recipe as good as this.” 

“I traveled along the coast during my journey here. I picked up many cuisines on the way--America is quite diverse like that.” He took a few more neat bites from his own bowl, then said casually, “The French inspiration in Louisiana is quite charming. I cannot wait to recreate some of the dishes I tasted.” 

Unbidden, Will’s jaw tensed a bit. He cleared his throat softly, fidgeting with his bowl and spoon, which were practically licked clean. “It’s not inspiration. We’re _l’acadiennes_.” The accent rolled off of his tongue, easy as ever.

The recognition that flickered through Hannibal’s eyes was something Will had never seen before, in response to his heritage and home. America was a melting pot and growing at such a fast rate the average person couldn’t, and didn’t care to, keep up with all that was happening. He should have known better of Hannibal, though; the man was vast and endless, and his mind was bound to be, as well.

“ _Est-ce que vous parlez français?_ ”

Will set his bowl down and scrubbed a hand over his mouth to hide the annoyed tick of his lips. He avoided the question they both knew his accent answered on its own. “My heritage died with my pa.” 

“But there is no denying who you are,” Hannibal said kindly.

“Who I am?” The rueful smile Will let loose ached. He avoided Hannibal’s gaze. “I left the swamp because without my father I didn’t know who I was.”

Seemingly trying to make a decision, Hannibal set his bowl and spoon down as he stood. He rounded the desk and stood behind Will’s chair, causing the hair on the nape of his neck to prickle and stand. Very gently, Hannibal’s palms rested on the curve of Will’s shoulders, squeezing in what could be construed as an affectionate gesture. 

“You know who you are.” 

The touch and the words sparked images in Will’s mind--bloodshed, screams, violence, carnage. The satisfaction he felt every time he took a life, watched the light bleed from a person’s eyes. The darkness that crept from every corner, dragging the cobwebs with it as it encroached on Will’s mind. He couldn’t help but agree with Hannibal; he’d fled home because he’d caught a glimpse of exactly who he was, and he couldn’t bear to live that life among people he knew, family he loved. 

“Why did you leave Louisiana?” 

Closing his eyes, Will tipped his head back. The doctor started to gently knead at his shoulders, sucking the tension out of his frame with his magic touch. “I killed the men who killed my father.” 

“You left a dark past behind only to choose a path darker than the night,” Hannibal murmured. “You cannot fight your true nature.” 

“A human’s true nature isn’t to be a murderer,” Will said, opening his eyes at last. Hannibal was looking down at him, his broad shoulders and stately nose breaking through the dust motes lazily floating through the dim sunshine illuminating the room.

“And yet here we are, at the top of the food chain,” the doctor said, his thumbs smoothing up the column of either side of Will’s neck. Suspended in the moment with Hannibal’s strong, warm hands caressing him, Will peered up at the doctor through his lashes consideringly. After a moment, Hannibal prompted, “Something else caused your departure?” 

“I had an affair,” the sheriff said slowly, holding their eye contact. 

“Carnal urges are often hard to slake in the presence of a beautiful face.” 

“It was with a married man.” 

“My sentiment holds true.” 

Will’s heart thumped against his ribs. “That doesn’t… bother you?” 

“I am not so naive to believe that the human mind would confine itself to the whims of conventional attraction. Our gut instinct often leads us to the destination that our minds will not.” Hannibal’s left hand moved, the backs of his knuckles petting down Will’s scruff affectionately. Their gazes still held, Will’s breath coming slower and slower. “Does it bother you, Will?” 

“It used to.” Feeling his lashes lower, he couldn’t help but nuzzle into the doctor’s touch on his cheek, much like a content kitten. “Those thoughts don’t cross my mind as of late.”

“Is that by choice, or circumstance?”

“I have more important obligations on my mind.” 

Quiet settled. Like every other quiet moment between them, this one hung suspended and unburdened. Hannibal withdrew his fingers, taking the warmth with them. He then busied himself with collecting the lid to his pot and his ladle, picking everything up in his hands and sending Will a cordial smile. 

“I am honored that you choose to be your true self around me, Will.” 

The honesty. His history. His manner of speech, the accent that gave away his heritage. His… preferences. Will wondered if there was a thing in existence that could ruffle the good doctor. He wanted to know how to pull the darkness out of Hannibal, wondered how he could get their shadows to twist and braid together. He imagined they would be quite pretty. And despite his craving for solitude… how nice it would be, he thought, to find company in the darkness. 

“Thank you for lunch, Hannibal.” 

The doctor’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction. “The pleasure was mine.”

\--

The noise of the saloon in the evening was a physical, tangible thing when one was seated inside. It was like a cloak pressing down on the shoulders, licking at calves. Tonight Will was watching a group of rowdy men that rolled into town today, five of them hootin’ and hollerin’ and carrying on. So far they were just noisy and happy, a little grabby with the ladies, but harmless. Will nursed his bottle of whiskey, forgoing the glass altogether. He drank for free, after all.

Two of the men broke off to head up the stairs with two ladies, ruffles and lace swishing as they went. Two men were caught up in a poker game, concentrating but not causing trouble. One man broke off from the group to head up to the bar, signaling the keep for a stout. He sat on the stool directly next to Will and offered him a friendly smile; the man was clean, his clothes dirty only from his journey, with silver-streaked hair and scruff to rival Will’s. 

“Dimmond,” the man introduced himself. 

“Graham,” Will said gruffly in return. He didn’t like social calls with even the townspeople, but this man and his group seemed alright. No sense in being overly rude. A little rude couldn’t hurt, though. 

The barkeep set a bottle in front of Dimmond before wandering away. Dimmond sent Will a smile, cheersing him subtly before taking a swig. “Nice little town you have here.” The more he spoke the more Will heard his accent; foreign, enticing. Not dissimilar to Hannibal’s. It put Will slightly on edge. The man’s smile was handsome and kind. “You’re the sheriff, right?”

Making a positive noise, Will picked up his bottle to take a pull of the rot within. Dimmond was dangerous, the exact kind of man Will had been avoiding since he left Louisiana. Dimmond reminded him of the man he…

“This town is lovely,” Dimmond continued, seemingly unbothered by Will’s lack of response. He smiled, rather handsomely at that, “American beauty.” His gaze unmistakably roved over Will from head to toe, none too subtle. Will squirmed slightly. The man’s smile softened a bit. “I thought I would introduce myself to the sheriff and thank him for the hospitality.” He shifted to get off of his stool, picking up his beer. “So: thank you.” 

“Not me you should be thanking,” Will said before he could stop himself. He clenched his jaw, fiddling with the bottle in his hands. He tried to resist, but a blush dusted over the bridge of his nose, heating his skin slightly. 

“No?” The accent on that word intrigued Will. He hated it. He didn’t want to be interested in anyone, let alone a man. He could get himself into trouble. Someone could misread the situation and he’d have to pack up and leave town-- “I’ve heard from many people that you’re the best sheriff in the West.” 

He couldn’t help but snort. He took a swig of whiskey, then shook his head. “They don’t know any better.” 

Dimmond settled on his stool once more, clearly satisfied that he’d successfully engaged Will in conversation. “Humble, too.” 

Will couldn’t help but let the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “How long y’all in town?”

“Just the night,” Dimmond said. “We’re staying in the hotel.” 

“All of you?” Will asked, letting his eyes wander to the two men playing poker, the other two still occupied upstairs. 

Dimmond followed his gaze, letting out a contemplative hum. “Perhaps tonight I will be alone.” 

Bad idea. Terrible idea. The last thing Will should be thinking about was taking Dimmond to his house to have his way with him. But it’d been over three years and Will had been practically celibate. He needed to take the edge off. If there was no trouble to be had in town tonight--Dimmond’s men having passed the surveillance test--then there was no reason for Will to hang around the saloon and lurk on the outer edges. He should be going home to his dogs and read his book by candlelight until he exhausted his eyes enough to force himself into maybe a few hours of sleep. He knew he was reading Dimmond correctly, too; no mistaking that. It was just subtle enough to be construed as regular conversation, but being a man of eclectic tastes himself, Will knew the hints. 

There was always a risk of getting a man alone and having it turn out to be a trap, but Will was good enough at reading people that so far he had yet to encounter that unfortunate circumstance. Dimmond was handsome and friendly, the very lowest bar Will could set for a one-night partner. Just as he opened his mouth to invite the man to his home, a heavy, familiar hand settled on his shoulder, the fingers digging in almost painfully. 

“Will,” Hannibal greeted, his voice almost sickly pleasant. Where his hand held the curve of Will’s shoulder heat seeped into his core. “Odd to find you in the saloon at this time of night.” 

Will’s hackles raised. He resisted looking at Hannibal, instead picking up the bottle of whiskey for a deeper swig. 

“Hello,” Dimmond said, the interest in his voice turning up a few notches. Will knew exactly what he and Hannibal looked like to the eye searching for it, especially with the way Hannibal was gripping his shoulder like a lover spurned. “Care to join us?” 

“Is there anything to join?” Hannibal asked blandly, though Will could hear the ice in his voice. He didn’t dare shake Hannibal’s hand from his shoulder. 

“I was under the impression there might be,” Dimmond said. Will could feel his eyes on his face. “Are you alright, Will?” 

How very generous, Will thought. A seemingly normal, nice man took an interest in him and Hannibal-- _seemingly_ normal and nice, came between them like an ice pick. “Fine. Dimmond, this is Dr. Lecter.” 

“Dr. Lecter,” Dimmond repeated. He was either that friendly or entirely oblivious. He held a hand out toward Hannibal with a warm smile. “I was just complimenting Will on this lovely town.” 

“It’s not him you should be thanking,” Hannibal echoed Will’s words from earlier. Will wondered if it was coincidence, or if Hannibal had been watching. He ignored the proffered hand.

Dimmond just laughed, handsome and warm. “That’s what he said.” He eyed them, not unkindly, his voice dropping a bit. “You two are quite the pair. Have you known each other long?” 

Will opened his mouth to deny anything between them, but Hannibal beat him to the punch. 

“Feels like forever,” the good doctor said. 

“We were just leaving--” Will started.

“Yes, we were.” 

Now he turned a glare to Hannibal, hot and pissed. He’d meant that he and Dimmond were about to leave, but Hannibal was hellbent on preventing that from happening it seemed. Will knew that the doctor had a somewhat perverse interest in him, but did it really extend that far? For him to prevent Will seeking out the company of other men? He and Hannibal had shared some… intimate moments, but he didn’t quite know what the doctor’s angle was. In this moment, however, he was starting to get an idea. 

“Hannibal,” Will said through gritted teeth.

Hannibal sent a pleased smile at him, soft and affectionate to anyone but Will who saw it for the threat it was. “I was thinking a nightcap, dear Will. At your place.” 

Sliding his gaze to Dimmond, who looked amused and not the least bit put out, Will took in a few measured breaths, before nodding. “Alright.” He caught Dimmond’s gaze, dipping his chin slightly. “Goodnight, Dimmond.” 

Smiling a bit broader, Dimmond leaned back in his stool slightly and nodded. “Goodnight, sheriff. Maybe I’ll catch you before we leave town tomorrow.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Hannibal said, protective and fierce. 

That seemed to hit Dimmond a little different. Now his gaze turned considering as he appraised Hannibal. Will wasn’t sure what Dimmond was looking for, but he must have found something interesting, because he shifted on his seat, grabbing his stout but not turning his back to Hannibal. “Goodnight, then.” 

Hannibal squeezed Will’s shoulder gently. Scowling, Will tipped back the bottle to get the last dregs of alcohol, then set the empty bottle on the counter along with a few coins to pay for Dimmond’s beer. He let Hannibal steer him out of the saloon, but once they were outside in the quiet street, he yanked himself away from the doctor’s grip.

“What the hell was that?” 

Smiling mildly, Hannibal continued walking to where Winston was hitched in front of the sheriff’s office. “Preventative measures.”

“Against _what_ ,” Will growled. 

“You disappearing with a stranger wouldn’t be invisible, dear Will,” Hannibal said, perhaps a bit too gently for his liking. Once they were at Winston’s side, Hannibal gently pet his fingers through his mane. “Especially to those who know you as a grumpy loner.” Blood red eyes shifted to pin Will in place. “You’ve managed to go this long without being noticed. Don’t lose what you have built in exchange for one night with a stranger.” 

Throwing his hands up in the air, Will then scrubbed them down his face. Hannibal was right. Will couldn’t allow his libido to screw up the image he’d created in this town. But--Dimmond had been so handsome and kind and just the right amount of rugged and clean, he’d reminded Will of the reasons why he preferred the company of his own sex. Being pursued not because he was considered weak, but because he was a formidable equal. Getting together with someone with the same end goal in mind, not looking for romance or flowers or a hand in marriage. 

When he pulled his hands away from his face, Hannibal’s expression had softened a bit. “I’m sorry, Will. But I couldn’t allow you to make that mistake. Not when you’ve worked so hard.” 

Still grumpy, Will took the reins off of the post and ran his hand up Winston’s snout affectionately, trying to dispel his anger by giving his horse affection. “I know.” 

Hannibal patted Winston’s flank gently, then took a step back. “Go home and rest, Will.” 

Feeling surprise grip him without his permission, Will blinked at Hannibal. “Didn’t you want a nightcap?” 

The doctor arched a brow. “That was a diversion.” Something strange flickered in his eyes. It looked a little like insecurity. “Unless you… wanted me to come have a nightcap?” 

Turning his head so Hannibal wouldn’t see the flush coloring his cheeks, Will shook his head jerkily before swinging up into the saddle. “No.” 

A small smile was on Hannibal’s lips when Will glanced at him. “Some other time, then.” 

“Some other time,” Will conceded. They held each other’s gazes silently for a few moments, an organic connection much like everything else between them. Finally, Will gently urged Winston forward with a click of his teeth. 

He wasn’t sure what he was getting into, with Hannibal. 

Tonight proved that he wasn’t willing to fight it.

\--

On a rare night of natural rest, Will wasn’t sure at first what woke him up. When his eyes opened and he stared up into the darkness of his home, he felt as though perhaps one of the dogs might have made a wanting noise, eager to go out for a piss. Listening quietly, he heard no stirring from his pack. Yawning wide, he stretched his arms over his head and his legs out so pleasantly he heard a few things crack and tension leave him in tiny waves. Settling down again, he figured that he’d just woken up naturally, and would fall back asleep soon. 

_Ding… ding… ding…_

His eyes snapped open.

That was the town bell, the one reserved for calling him into emergency situations. Without evening thinking about it he threw off the bed covers and stood, quickly gathering his clothes. Pants, shirt, socks, boots. The sheriff badge on his vest smacked against his chest as he threw it on, and he grabbed his hat and holster on autopilot. He checked his ammo belt and the chamber of his Colt, dancing around snoozing dogs as he made his way to the front door. He threw it open and nearly froze on the spot, eyes taking in the town a short distance away.

It was ablaze. 

His heart almost stopped in his chest. He ducked back inside and grabbed his shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder with the strap. Winston was braying softly in the barn--he clearly sensed something was amiss. Throwing open the door he shushed Winston softly, moving expertly to avoid prancing hooves. He opened the stall and hefted the blanket and saddle onto Winston’s back with practiced ease, grabbing a rope harness instead of the leather bridal. Within moments he was galloping toward town, Winston chuffing out of his nose. 

The town was lit up. Among the screaming there were gunshots and the sounds of glass and wood breaking and shattering. When Will was within range he saw women and children desperately trying to put out fires and rescue other townspeople, bodies scattered about. Winston reared up when he got too close to one of the blazing buildings--he pulled on the ropes and woahed him loudly, dancing him around a bit to try and gather his bearings and figure out what was happening. 

Bandits.

He could see them on their horses holding torches and shooting into the scattering crowds. Wearing all black and bandanas to cover their faces they were hooting and hollering, causing utter chaos and mayhem. Spurring Winston he started riding toward the women and children, shouting at them to flee the town. There was no such thing as an exit plan for this no-name town but most everyone knew that if they got to the river they would be safe. Crying mothers and screaming children clutched to each other as they tried to find safe passage out of the burning town. Some horses were off their leads, stampeding through the dirt. Tugging Winston around Will started to shout orders at the remaining men--get water from the pump, buckets full of dirt, anything they could to try and put out the fires. 

More gunshots and screams rang. 

Whipping around, Will scanned the hollering bandits. There looked to be only half a dozen of them, all on horses and well armed. The sheriff’s office was nearly ash; he had a brief thought about Zeller, but he pushed his worry aside to focus on the task.

He had to get rid of these bandits and save the town. 

Kicking harshly at Winston’s flanks, Will darted toward where the men were gathered and shouting a conversation. Letting go of Winston’s harness he pulled the shotgun round his shoulder, taking aim and squeezing the trigger.

One of the men fell from his horse, chest exploded with buckshot. 

The other four men reared their horses around, four guns pointing in Will’s direction. He yanked Winston around to dodge the spray of bullets, thankful they were wielding pistols and not shotguns. Winston was huffing loudly out of his nose but reacting beautifully, nearly moving with Will’s thoughts before he even communicated where he wanted to go. Amid the screams and the harsh vortex of winds from the fires it was hard to tell exactly where the bandits were behind him, but as long as he had their attention on him and not on the townspeople, he didn’t care. The next turn revealed the mayor’s office intact--but the doctor’s office…

The pale blue facade of the doctor’s office was singed black. The windows were broken. The door was hanging off of its hinges. White hot rage filled Will and in a split second he turned Winston on his hooves, the horse making a noise of complaint at the sudden direction change. He galloped toward an alley, nearly throwing himself off of Winston. As soon as his feet hit the dirt he slapped Winston hard on the rear, the horse braying and sprinting away. He’d go back to the barn, safe and sound.

Will was going to take care of this. 

In the shadows of the alley he cracked open his shotgun and reloaded. He was covered in sweat and the dirt that had been floating through the air, his skin grimy and his hair damp. The heavy thudding of hooves reached his ears over the noise of the fire; he swung around the building, shouldered the butt of the shotgun, and squeezed off a shot. 

The blast startled one of the horses, knocking its rider to the ground. The other three shouted and swung around to spray the building with gunshots, Will throwing himself to the dirt to crawl away. His position exposed, he scrambled to his feet and ran farther into the alley before hooking a right. His boots were loud on the porch, spurs jangling. A gunshot narrowly missed his head, knocking off his hat and spraying splinters at him. He dodged into the next alley; one of the men ran up on him with his horse, leaping off to knock Will bodily to the ground. His shotgun flew out of his hands. The man pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Will’s skull.

He was going to die.

He closed his eyes. The man's knee was digging painfully into his ribs.

As suddenly as he’d been tackled, the weight of the man disappeared along with an inhuman noise. Still tense in preparation to meet his fate, Will’s nerves fired all at once, adrenaline moving his body forward. Flipping onto his back and up onto his butt he scooted backwards, taking in the sight of the nearly decapitated bandit, covered in blood and gurgling in death. 

He was alone. 

Not taking any chances he got onto his feet, pulling his Colt from his holster and checking the chamber out of habit. He crept around the building, making his way slowly to the doctor’s office. The other three bandits were nowhere to be seen, but Will _had_ to know if Hannibal was--

Biting back a growl of frustration, he kept to the shadows as he approached the back door to the doctor’s office. Testing the handle and finding it locked, Will tried peering into the window next to the door. Pitch black. The flames must have been put out before they could take the entire building down. There was no sign of Hannibal. He had to be ok, right? He chewed his lip. Every part of him desperately wanted to go inside and do a scan for the doctor, but his rational brain won out. He had to take care of the men destroying this town and save the people.

He had a feeling Hannibal wasn’t inside, anyway.

Huffing, he cocked his gun and then ducked around the building to the main street. Some of the fires were out, others being contained by townsfolk not scared enough to abandon their livelihoods. The bandits were hooting in the distance and Will smirked to himself--bad guys were idiots, always carrying on and giving themselves away. 

He stood in the middle of main street, hot wind and dust blowing around him. He took a few breaths to calm himself, feeling his heartbeat slow from its adrenaline-ridden thrashing. The hollering of the bandits came closer and closer until they rounded the corner and saw Will standing in the road--they shot forward on their horses, guns drawn. He stared them down in challenge; two of their own were already dead and they were surely hellbent on getting revenge.

When they were close enough they trotted their horses around him in a slow circle, jeering and waving their guns around. 

“Lookit this pretty boy!” 

“Didn’t know they let sissies be sheriff--this town deserves to be burnt down!” 

“Betcha he’s a real good kisser!” 

Holding his gun to his side, barrel to the ground, Will took in each of the men as they circled him. One was fat. One was old. One was jaundiced from alcohol. Unimpressive, really. The two dead ones must have been the brains of the operation. A pity. The fun was just getting started. The men hadn’t killed him yet, and Will had a few ideas as to how they were going to pass their time with him. 

The fat one halted his horse and nearly fell off of it, he was so large. Will held his ground, keeping his chin up and his eyes narrowed. His body and mind became hyper-aware of the men and his surroundings. The fat one stepped toward him, pulling the bandana from his face to send Will yellowed smile. 

“How’s a thing like you become sheriff, hm?” he cajoled. He blatantly looked Will up and down, taking in his dirty clothes, the spatters of blood. 

Will said nothing. 

The jaundiced one whistled sharply. “He asked you a question, priss!” 

Blue eyes cut to that man, but Will still said nothing. 

The fat man took a step closer, now two feet away from Will. He holstered his gun. “Yer women ain’t as pretty as you. I think we’ll have a bit of fun.” He took a step closer, reaching out. 

Will’s left hand shot up to grab the man’s hand immediately, twisting and bending. The snap of his wrist was heard over the fiery breeze, his anguished howl music to Will’s ears as he dropped down to his knee. The other two men cocked their guns and pointed them at Will, shouting at him to step back.

He did so with a smirk. 

The fat man, tears in his eyes, raised his gun up shakily with his good hand. “You motherfucker!” 

Offering a coy smile, Will batted his lashes. “I thought you wanted to have fun?” He dropped the smile. “I am.”

Darting forward, he grabbed the fat man’s gun with his left hand. Now armed with two revolvers he hooked his arms under the man’s chubby armpits, using all of his strength to haul him up just in time to use him as a shield for the bullets the other two men let loose. He shot blindly at the men in return, stumbling backwards from the weight of the now-dead man and the force of the bullets. The men reared their horses around, shouting at one another in anger and confusion. 

Will dropped the body and ran for cover behind a wagon parked in front of the doctor’s office. He was winded from hefting the fat man around. He heard the men dismount their horses and start walking toward him; he regulated his breathing once more, exhaled slowly, then stepped out from behind the wagon with both revolvers pointed at them, unsurprised to see their guns on him in turn.

Stalemate. 

“Yer gonna pay for what you did to Marty,” the jaundiced man spat. 

Will stayed silent. It unnerved the old man, who shouted and waved his gun. “Say somethin’!” 

Will cocked both revolvers. The two men, though nervous, did the same. He had no idea how this was going to end; either they would figure out they had him outnumbered and could easily have taken him out by now, or he would stop toying with them and kill them. For nearly desecrating a town and causing as much terror as they had, they sure were stupid. 

A minute passed. Will stayed perfectly still, not a tremor in his bones as he held the guns pointed at the men’s chests. He didn’t blink. He barely breathed.

Then, they became uncoordinated. The jaundiced man made to turn tail and run just as the old man pulled the trigger. Will shot his guns nearly simultaneously--one bullet hit the fleeing man in the back of the head, and the old man’s bullet tore through Will’s gut. He stumbled, vision fuzzing from pain and shock. He cocked the gun again, shot, and missed. His body was on fire, his fingers trembling. He dropped down to a knee, still holding one of the revolvers up, his other hand covering his stomach to try and stem the bleeding. 

This time, he really was going to die. 

The old man stepped up to him with a satisfied expression on his grizzled, ugly face. “I admire you, sheriff.” He bent slightly to put his unsavory face in Will’s line of sight. He knocked the gun easily from his hand, then landed a solid punch on the sheriff's jaw, cracking neck and bone. “You got guts.” He crowed a laugh at his own joke, slapping his knee.

His laughter cut off in a choked gurgle. 

Blinking through his fuzzy vision, Will saw a man behind the bandit, an arm choking his throat and the other arm pinning him to a strong body. The gun dropped from the old man’s hand. His toes were nearly lifted off of the ground. 

Hannibal’s voice was velvet poison. “I’m afraid you have made a grave mistake.” The old man was trying to gasp for breath, hitting weakly at Hannibal’s forearm. Shadows thrown from the fires around them cast Hannibal in darkness, red eyes gleaming in the moonlight, great horns branching free from his head. “How unfortunate for you.” He twisted his arm, the snap of the man’s neck cracking loudly. 

The body dropped. 

Will looked up at Hannibal with blurry eyes. He was filthy, his three-piece suit in shambles, covered with dirt and blood. His hair was in disarray. He was bleeding sluggishly from his abdomen. Coughing, Will spat out some blood into the dirt, grimacing. He lifted a hand towards Hannibal, reaching for him as he did his best not to collapse. 

Hannibal’s strong, iron grip pulled Will up on unstable footing. He drew the sheriff into his chest, supporting him as though he weighed nothing. Feeling woozy with pain and relief, Will practically nuzzled into Hannibal’s throat, his eyes fighting to stay open. 

“See?” Hannibal said softly. One hand held Will at the small of his back, the other reaching to tangle in Will’s filthy hair. 

Letting out a pained wheeze, Will nodded. He licked his dry, bloody lips and said, “It’s beautiful.” 

Darkness was a welcome reprieve.

\--

For the second time, Will awoke in Hannibal’s bed. The elegance of the room in the daylight was lovely and wholly reflective of the doctor’s expensive tastes, and while he tried to gather the strength to move, Will allowed himself to appreciate it. The space was clean, as was every space in Hannibal’s home and office. It was fragranced and warm. The usual sensation of feeling out of place was missing, however, when Will let the situation sink in.

Swallowing around his dry throat, Will started to gently touch his body. His torso was wrapped tightly but comfortably, aching and sore but not too bad. The rest of his body was sore as well, likely from the adrenaline rush and subsequent crash, along with however long he’d been sleeping off his injuries. He touched his hair--he was clean. Scrubbed clean. Doing his best to not think about Hannibal manhandling his unconscious body and then washing him and dressing him, he sat up slowly, using the pain as an anchor. He hissed through his teeth, draping an arm over his belly as he propped up on his elbow.

“Ha-” his voice rasped and broke. His throat was so dry. The blankets were almost too heavy for him to push aside. Very carefully he stood, using the nightstand to brace himself--his hand nearly knocked something over, and when he sluggishly caught it he saw it was a cane. Unable to help the tattered snort from leaving him, he silently thanked Hannibal for his foresight. He grabbed a silk robe from the back of the door, covering himself and tying it loosely so as not to disturb his wound. 

Hannibal was in the living room, laid out on the couch and apparently napping. Chewing his lip, Will regarded the man without any barriers between them. The Hannibal that had saved him that night… that was the Hannibal that he’d only gotten glimpses of. That was the true Hannibal. The real Hannibal. It should be concerning, really; he was sheriff of this sleepy town, and to have a monster roaming around…

He caught sight of his own reflection in the looking glass mounted on the wall. He was a little gaunt from having an empty stomach for what was sure to be a few days. His curls were wild. His scruff was thick. But his eyes… they were bright, and clearer than they have ever been. 

“Will.” 

Hannibal’s voice was soft, thick with sleep when he spoke. Will turned to see him sitting up on the couch, moving stiffly. He was dressed down as ever in a loose shirt and pants, his hair soft and fluffy. Even though he was clearly in pain, he gritted his teeth and walked to Will, refraining from touching him but clearly wanting to. “How do you feel?” 

Searching Hannibal’s face, Will debated on how to answer that question. Physically, he was in pain. His entire body hurt. He was starving. 

Mentally…

“You saved me,” he said. 

Something in Hannibal’s eyes softened. They were no longer blood red, but honeyed with affection. “I did.” 

“I was prepared to die, I think,” Will said softly. He saw the corners of Hannibal’s eyes tighten, and he reflexively lifted a hand to cup Hannibal’s face, returning so many unrequited physical affections. Hannibal very gently leaned into his palm, their eyes locked. “I came here and I saw the damage, but I didn’t see you…” Saying it out loud now, with proper thoughts in his head, made him realize just how scary that night had been. At the time he’d been acting on instinct and adrenaline. 

But when he’d thought about the good doctor being hurt, it was like a flip had been switched in his brain. 

“I was looking for you,” Hannibal said quietly. 

Water on wine, Will searched Hannibal’s features. He had a split lip, his brow bruised. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest, something foreign and strange. His thumb swept under the shadows held under the doctor’s eyes. He whispered, “You found me.” 

Mapping his movements, Hannibal put a gentle hand on Will’s waist, drawing him forward. “You would die without me?” 

Heaviness filled Will’s chest. It spread and warmed, propelling him closer to Hannibal until their noses were brushing. “I would die by your hand, first.” 

Hannibal sucked in a quiet breath. He lifted his other hand to gently brush Will’s curls away from his face, thumb stroking over his forehead. “Then we would die together.” 

Swallowing, throat still dry, Will tilted his chin up ever so slightly, invitingly. “Kiss me.” 

Leaning in until their noses brushed, Hannibal smoothly dodged at the very last second, pressing his lips warmly to Will’s cheek. He held contact there for a few heartbeats, Will’s eyes closing and an odd disappointment filtering through his senses. When the doctor pulled away he looked equally pained, his hand lifting to gently trace his thumb over Will’s waiting bottom lip. 

“You need food,” the doctor said, soft but firm. 

It wasn’t outright rejection, but it wasn’t what Will had wanted. Hannibal drew away, regaining his grace now that he was on his feet. Silent as a ghost he moved through the dining room to the closed off kitchen. Alone, frustrated, and more lost than he cared to admit, Will reached up and ran a shaky hand over his features. Gathering his wits and his breath, he relied on the cane to help him shuffle through Hannibal’s home, following him to the kitchen.

When he passed through the door, he momentarily forgot why he’d followed Hannibal. The room was spacious, open. Lots of counters, a large sink with plumbing; there was what could only be described as a living wall, plants housed in beautiful shelves, swaying gently with the motion of humans in the room, breathing their carbon dioxide and giving it back to them as an undeserving gift. Will knew these plants were meant to be consumed. 

Hannibal kept his back to him. Will watched as he worked at the counter, the thin shirt leaving nothing to the imagination as his muscles shifted and tensed under it. The smell of fresh garlic permeated Will’s nostrils. Hannibal was doing an excellent job of preparing it. 

There was a small table with a stool. On it was a tumbler with two fingers of scotch--the good kind. Will gingerly sat down, leaning his cane against the table. 

“I was unsure if you would stay,” Hannibal admitted softly. He still didn’t turn around. 

Will frowned, his reply instantaneous, “Where else would I go?” 

The look that Hannibal sent over his shoulder held worlds within, dark and vast and endless. He turned back to the task at hand, schooling his voice into something more casual. “Your town has burned.”

“Those that stayed will rebuild,” he replied. His gaze shifted to the window that overlooked the back roads, quaint residences within the town. He couldn’t see out of it, but now that his head was clearer and there was an open window, he could hear the sound of hammering and shouting. 

“Will you stay and rebuild?” 

The thought hadn’t occurred to him. His instinct upon waking was to check in with Hannibal, have his wounds tended to, and then head out to town so the people could see their sheriff, no matter how beaten down he was. His instinct was to collect Zeller and the mayor, should they be alive, and come up with a defense plan for the next unfortunate incident that came their way. Then, his instinct was to rebuild the sheriff office, spit shine his shoes and badge, and then continue on.

It wasn’t until Hannibal posed the question that Will thought of anything else. 

Now his mind opened to putting his badge on whatever remained of the sheriff’s desk. It opened to going to his home, gathering his horse and dogs and packing a few bags, then quietly slipping off into the horizon, heading West once more. 

His gaze refocused on Hannibal’s back. 

In his mind there was a second horse with him, black as night and heavy with iron. 

Suddenly he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Licking his lips, he fingered the tumbler, leaving it on the table. “It would be my duty.” 

“And what if you had no duties?” Hannibal asked, some confidence leaking back into his voice. He turned on the impressive gas stove, placing a few cast iron skillets on the burners. 

“I would leave.” 

“You owe these people nothing. Your debt to Jack has been repaid. A band of miscreants, foiled.” 

He wouldn’t bother correcting Hannibal’s statement. He’d taken a few out, but he knew it had been Hannibal lurking in the darkness. Finally picking up the glass for a sip, he set it down again and spun it idly. “What’s the damage to your shop?”

“The unfortunate soul who thought he could sneak in without my noticing was promptly taken care of.” Hannibal turned around, draping a dish towel over his shoulder. He sent Will a mild smile, “My home remains intact.” 

Unsurprised, Will nodded and dropped his gaze. Finally, he muttered, “My debt will never be repaid.” 

“Do you crucify yourself, or do these lovely townspeople hold you to a decree?” 

Frowning, Will was unsure how to reply. That was, perhaps, reply enough. 

“Jesus sacrificed himself to cleanse the sins of humanity, and carried the burden with him into the afterlife.” The doctor picked up a knife, turning back to the counter once more, the sound of chopping filling the quiet between his words. 

“Jesus was a man,” he finally replied. 

“As are you,” Hannibal pointed out.

Putting an elbow on the table, Will tangled his fingers in his curls, closing his eyes to try and keep the impending headache at bay. “Just say you don’t approve of my reasons for staying.” 

“I don’t approve of your reasons for staying,” Hannibal said it so simply, despite the words piercing Will like an arrow. “You’ve no family. No deep relationships. You had a goal, once, Will. And you let it slip out of your hands because of temporary loyalty.” 

“Would you leave so easily?” 

“I could, and I would.”

“Then why do you stay?” 

The look Hannibal slipped over his shoulder took the air out of Will’s lungs. 

With disbelief, Will said, “I am what is keeping you here? What about your mentor?” 

“That work was, and is important,” Hannibal said with a hum. “But that work can be carried on anywhere. If you wish to leave, Will, you need only say so. If you would accept my company, I would join you.” 

Disbelief mixed with frustration once again gripped him. He had asked this man to kiss him, put himself on the line, and had been… not rejected, but… waylaid. Restrained physical affection, though he’d received plenty of it, was Hannibal’s only tell for his feelings toward him. And when given an opportunity to let it all come to a head--

“Do you… love me?” 

Hannibal kept his back turned. He dropped meat in one of the skillets, the sizzling loud in the quiet room, the scent of cooking chicken wafting around. His voice sounded almost small. “Does it matter?” 

Standing up, Will winced when his hip and side protested. He held the cane in a white-knuckled grip, shuffling unevenly to where Hannibal resolutely held his ground, back to Will. He hated how weak he felt, how his right foot couldn’t pick up fully off of the floor. His right shoulder, still occasionally tender from Michael Brown’s affections, started to ache with the exertion. He lifted his left hand up to grip Hannibal’s shoulder, doing his best to not yank the man around. He went with the guidance, turning slightly to meet Will’s gaze, looking horribly weary. The monster was cornered. The beast was faced with an unexpected enemy. 

The myth of Native American legends.

Searching bordeaux eyes, Will squeezed Hannibal’s bicep slightly. Again, he demanded, voice firmer this time: “Kiss me.” 

Dropping whatever was in his hands to the counter, Hannibal’s arms enveloped Will in an embrace unlike anything he’d felt before. He brought Will in for a hug, tucking his face into his neck, a hand at the back of his head and the other arm locked around his waist on just the wrong side of painful for his wound. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” Hannibal murmured, his soft voice sounding wounded. 

“I know what you are,” Will murmured, his voice muffled in the warmth of Hannibal’s throat. “Hannibal.” The doctor’s grip on him flexed minutely, Will sucking in a gasp as a new burst of pain blossomed up to his ribs. “ _Please_.” 

Hannibal’s hand moved from the back of his head to under his jaw lightning-quick. His palm held Will’s throat in a chokehold, tipping his head back to level their gazes. Swallowing, feeling his larynx constricting under Hannibal’s strong palm, Will let out what could only be described as a needy pant. Whatever Hannibal found in his eyes must have been satisfactory; he kept his nearly crushing grip on Will’s throat, pulling him into a fierce kiss.

Darkness bloomed behind Will’s closed lids. He surrendered, feeling his knees weaken at the force of Hannibal’s kiss, the way he held his body immobile, the contrast of the pleasure of Hannibal’s lips and the way he was holding his broken body. Parting his lips he felt Hannibal licking into his mouth, the sound wet, teeth sharp. He couldn’t even respond properly, his brain and his body misfiring and miscommunicating, fight or flight tugging at the outer edges of his consciousness. 

He was kissing a monster. 

A monster that saved his life.

A monster that _chose_ him. 

His hands moved up to Hannibal’s hair, fingers tangling tightly in the locks, feeling a few strands dislodge. Hannibal let out a growl in response, feet kicking at Will’s to lead him backwards until his ass bumped against the lone table. It shook on its legs, the tumbler of scotch sailing to the floor and shattering. Hannibal didn’t kiss so much as he consumed. Will felt like he was on fire. Every nerve end was confused between pain and pleasure, Hannibal’s fingers fitting around the curve of his throat perfectly. His other hand slid to the small of Will’s back, pressing into the slope to mould their bodies together. A muffled gasp left Will’s abused mouth as he felt Hannibal’s hardness pressing into his own. 

It had never been like this. 

Gentlemen callers, lords who lurked on the outskirts in order to observe intently before they took risks--they were gentle, in a sense. As far as Will knew sex between a man and a woman had some sense of delicacy to it, as women were often (sometimes wrongly) viewed as weak, unable to fully reciprocate a man’s passion. The sex he’d had with men had been rough, thankless, without affection. It was gratifying, but nothing more. 

Hannibal, though. 

He was an inferno. Raging with passion and restrained power, nearly impossible to contain and all-consuming. Will felt both used and adored at once, his sanity fraying at the onslaught of _obsession_ that beat against his mental faculties. He knew Hannibal had been interested in him, nearly from the start, but this degree of want was… unheard of. Will had never seen, nor experienced anything like it. 

He was being kissed to death. 

When Hannibal finally relented, mouth kiss-swollen and eyes dark with arousal, he released his grip on Will’s throat only enough to relieve the pressure. He still cradled the vulnerable curve of it as Will gasped for breath, feeling spit dribbling down into his beard, his skin flushed and his grip on Hannibal’s shoulders so tight it hurt to uncurl his fingers. 

Even disheveled with pleasure and arousal, Hannibal was still mostly put together as his eyes tracked over Will’s features. His hand finally moved from Will’s throat, thumb tracing over the curve of his cheekbone. Will’s breath was stertorous and deep, his head rushing from the oxygen influx, his fingers too weak to hold onto Hannibal’s sleeves but his instincts wanting to stay connected. 

“You are beautiful,” Hannibal murmured, entirely too composed. 

Dazed, Will took in Hannibal’s appearance, felt their arousal trapped between their bodies, and suddenly felt faint. Hannibal reacted accordingly, helping Will sit on the stool once more. He kicked the broken glass shards away with his foot for now, fetching a new glass of water and holding it up to Will’s lips. Will drank from it greedily, uncaring of the liquid sloshing down his chin and throat. Setting the glass aside, Hannibal embraced Will once more, this time delicately. Will rested his cheek against Hannibal’s chest, feeling his eyes droop. 

“You need more rest,” Hannibal said. His voice was fuzzy and faraway. 

Will closed his eyes. 

As long as he was in the den of the monster, he was safe.

\--

Hannibal had nursed Will back to health and then politely let him return to the outside world. Aside from the heated kiss in the kitchen, they shared no more overly physical affections. Though Hannibal’s touch wasn’t entirely clinical anymore, there was still the tiniest thread of control strung between them, strong but thin like the lines of a spiderweb. Their touches lingered, their eyes traced, but the heat seemed to be simmering for now, a comfortable warmth between them. 

When Will left Hannibal’s home to greet the townsfolk healed and healthy, he felt like a new man. 

Deputy Zeller and the mayor had proven competent in his absence. It had been almost a week and many of the storefronts were nearly fully framed, some children tasked with painting whatever wood was ready for it. The townsfolk were banding together beautifully, the memory of the bandits just that--a memory. Will knew that nearly a dozen of their own had died between the fires and the outlaws, but people were resilient. This small no-name town was proof of that. 

He replayed his and Hannibal’s conversation often. He wasn’t sure what was keeping him in this town, not when he’d been asked the question; but as he walked along main street and awkwardly took people’s praise, thanks, and well-wishes, he realized that this was probably the first place he’d been accepted. Despite the fact that he shielded his true self away from the people, and despite the fact that it was mostly built on lies, he felt as though these people… cared. Which was odd for Will, in all honesty.

So for the next month he worked alongside the townsfolk, the miscreants taking time off to help rebuild their only home. Debris was cleared, buildings were erected, every willing and able hand offering help under Will’s guidance and direction. The no-name town was on its way to being back to rights. 

Will wondered if, when the town was whole again, he would stick around. 

\--

The dogs barking woke Will up from the first full night’s sleep since he left Hannibal’s care. His eyes snapped open, his brain automatically going on full alert as he slipped out of bed and grabbed the shotgun stowed under the mattress. Creeping to the door, he noted a few of the dog’s tails were wagging. That was usually a sign that whoever was on the other side of the door was friendly. 

Given that the sun had barely risen, Will’s brain immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Someone was on the other side of the door, probably Zeller, here to tell him of some sort of disaster happening in town, or, hell, maybe it was someone here to tell him of Zeller’s death; it could be anything. Will’s mind couldn’t help but play out every worst-case scenario as he crept toward the door on bare feet, the empty hearth allowing a chill breeze to ruffle his sleep shorts and bare skin.

It could be more bandits, back to take revenge on their fallen comrades, holding dried jerky in their hands to appease the hounds. 

Propping the gun on his good shoulder with his eyes down the barrel, Will opened the front door, taking a firm step forward to aim the gun directly at--

Hannibal’s throat. 

The doctor arched a brow and blinked mildly. “Good morning, Will.” 

Lowering the gun, Will huffed, his brain magically dispelled of negative thoughts. “I could have shot you.” 

“But you didn’t,” said Hannibal neatly. He held up the crockery in his hands. He was wearing a heavier coat; autumn was starting to turn. “Breakfast?” 

They hadn’t spent time alone together since Will left Hannibal’s home. Chewing the inside of his cheek, Will turned around to move to the bed and stash the shotgun away. Hannibal took the silence for invitation, following Will inside and shutting the door. He looked around with interest; the one-room house with a bed in a corner, a kitchenette suitable for a single person, two chairs next to a rickety table, and… dogs. Which were currently wagging their tails and dancing around the doctor’s legs, interested in whatever he had in his hands. 

Will set the small table, pulling out a chair for Hannibal who sent him an amused smile. Inside the warm dish was a breakfast hash--potatoes, eggs, sausage, peppers. It smelled delicious. Will felt his mouth watering slightly. 

“I fear you haven’t had a decent meal in a long time,” Hannibal confessed as he sat down across from the sheriff. 

“Is that the only thing you fear?” Will asked as he picked up a spoon. 

There was a beat of silence before Hannibal said, “One among few.” 

Darting his gaze up to meet Hannibal’s, Will had a feeling he could guess what the good doctor would be afraid of, most of which likely involved Will himself. The man seemed self-possessed and so confident that the outcome of any scenario wouldn’t surprise him. Having a gun in his face first thing in the morning, all the way up to ridding the town of bad guys. The only time Will had seen Hannibal ruffled was… well. After the night that almost killed both of them. 

“Why are you here?” Will asked. The hash was as delicious as it smelled.

“Should I have an ulterior motive?” Hannibal replied delicately.

“We haven’t socialized in almost two months,” the sheriff pointed out, with only a little sharpness. He wouldn’t dare admit to something like _missing_ the good doctor, even though there were notes of that longing buried beneath his gruff words.

Letting out an uncharacteristic sigh, Hannibal set his spoon down in his bowl to level Will with his unwavering gaze. “It was what you needed.” 

Scowling, Will pushed his food around like a petulant child. “Was it?” 

“The town is nearly whole again. After its destruction you saw it through infancy and now it is ready to walk.” Hannibal picked up his spoon again, doing his best to put off an air of nonchalance. Will could see the tension at the corners of his eyes, his stiff posture. “Tell me, Will. When it runs, will you allow it independence?” 

A few things clicked into place. “You’re asking me if I’ll leave once everything is put back together.” 

“I see the yearning in your eyes. A part of you will always have affection for this town, but the rest of you longs to head West. When the town reaches adulthood you may leave the nest. It is perfectly capable of surviving on its own.”

Will couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic laugh. “And I’ll retire?” 

“Do you not feel deserving?” Hannibal suddenly asked, his intense gaze pinning Will to his chair. 

“What?” Will’s gut twisted uncomfortably. 

“For all you have done, do you not feel as though you could be rewarded for your time here? That you could treat yourself and have what you’ve wanted all along?” 

“I don’t think-” 

“This is the last time I bring it up,” Hannibal said, lifting a placating hand. The tension in his eyes softened slightly, though his shoulders stayed taut. “Consider my words, Will.” 

Laughing mirthlessly, Will sent Hannibal an incredulous look. “Why don’t you just come out and say it?” The doctor blinked slowly. Will leaned forward accusingly, “You want us to ride off into the sunset together.” 

“The thought has occurred to me,” Hannibal said primly, taking another bite of food. 

Incredulity turned to amusement as a wry smile curled Will’s lips. “You know…” he said as casually as possible. “You could have just said so.”

“I just did.” 

It was too early for Hannibal’s sass. Rolling his eyes, Will stood from the table to move to the stove where he had coffee simmering in a kettle. “I’m not sure if you’re… the type.”

“The type to what?” Hannibal asked curiously.

Will picked up a coffee mug, gesturing idly with it before setting it down to fill it up, “To ride out to the frontier. You probably arrived here by stagecoach. Out there-” he set the mug on the table in front of Hannibal, who sniffed the steam and then wrinkled his nose in distaste. Will suppressed a laugh. “-the coffee tastes like this. You sleep under the stars. You get hit with all of the weather. Bug bites, even worse. Bathing in streams. Shitting in a hole. It’s just you and your horse and the supplies you pick up far and few between the shithole towns from here to there.” 

Hannibal picked up the mug, glaring at Will and taking a determined sip of the thick sludge. His eyes shone with tears, cheeks flushing and lips starting to pucker. 

Chuckling, Will poured himself a mug and returned to his seat. He pushed his plate to the side so he could rest his forearms on the table, wrapping his hands around the hot mug and sending Hannibal what might be mistaken for an affectionate smile. “You don’t got the chops, Hannibal.”

“I’ll have you know,” the doctor said, setting down his mug. “Inclement weather and difficult situations don’t sway me from wanting-” He cut himself off.

Will arched a brow. 

Dropping his gaze, Hannibal tapped his fingers on the mug. “I am fully capable of adjusting.” 

Searching Hannibal’s face, realization dawned on Will. He’d taken Hannibal’s affections for him with a grain of salt--chalked it up to Hannibal’s strange intensity and how he never did anything in halves. He knew, on some level, that Hannibal cared for him; that much was evident in the man patching him up twice, both experiences having held a certain sort of passion that Will had never experienced before. Their kiss was still fresh in his mind, the months gone by doing nothing to dull the memory. Finally _listening_ , hearing the man continuously telling Will to continue on his journey West and fulfill the dreams he’d conjured when he left Louisiana, hearing Hannibal’s plea woven between his words… 

“You would change for me.”

“You have changed me.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Will went quiet. 

“Just as I have changed you,” Hannibal dared to say.

Leaning back in his chair, Will ran his fingers through his tangled curls, wincing as he caught on a lock of hair. Turning his head to the side and folding his arms over his chest, he tapped his toe idly on the floor. He couldn’t deny it. Their effect on each other was… profound. 

“It will take nearly a whole month.” 

“I’ve traveled for longer.”

“We will be on horseback.” 

“We shall pack accordingly.” 

“We’ll have to hunt for food.”

“Then it is a good thing I will be with a sheriff who knows how to use a gun.” 

Exasperated, Will couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips, showing his teeth and deepening his dimples. “You would give up your life for me.”

“I would give up my home and business for you,” Hannibal corrected, “because my life would be _with_ you.” 

Scratching at his eyebrow, Will let out a frayed laugh. “Alright, then.”

Hannibal raised a brow, unconvinced.

Sitting forward, Will’s smile turned into a smirk. “Settle your business, doctor. Someone needs to replace you when we leave.” 

Lips curling, Hannibal’s feline features were fond. “Of course, Will.”

\--

They left town with little fanfare. Zeller was nervous to take Will’s place, but he did so dutifully. This town was his home, he would do well in protecting it. He appointed a capable-looking man to deputy. Hannibal had sent out a telegram back East, and a week later a beautiful, blonde, poised woman arrived in a stagecoach to take over his practice. She had the same air about her as Hannibal, though where he looked at Will with affection and respect, she, standing five-foot five inches tall, managed to look down her nose at him. Will wouldn’t ask the nature of their relationship. It was nauseating enough to see Hannibal bare some of his true self to her whenever they spoke privately. 

Hannibal, for his part, didn’t peep a word of complaint. Two weeks into their journey he had adapted wonderfully, like he’d been on horseback traversing the wild country for his entire life. He still held that aristocratic air and elegance, but the edge was taken off with his dirty hair and dusty clothes. They bathed more frequently than Will would have done if he’d been alone, but he didn’t mind. He and Hannibal were not only embarking on this short trip to take them Westward, but a longer journey, one where they lived parallel and occasionally twined to become one before parting once more. No matter what, though, they would continue on side by side, infinitely, forever. Will didn’t know how long infinity or forever were, but he knew he wanted that with Hannibal, come what may. 

Will guided them by the stars. Winston was reliable as ever. Hannibal was riding Buster, a paint that Will had broken more recently; they were getting along swimmingly. It was amusing to see the horse take such a shining to Hannibal, who stiffly allowed the affectionate snuffling and nudging whenever he stood next to the horse. They had all five of Will’s dogs, his dutiful pack who stayed close to them at all times, protecting them from any other wild beasts they might encounter. They helped hunt, they helped keep them warm at night, and they kept them--mostly Will--sane.

As the days went on, they grew more in sync. Verbal communication between them was rare; prompted whenever a thought would strike Hannibal or something they passed would remind him of a time long gone. Will enjoyed hearing about Europe, the art and the intellect rife in the beautiful land. Hannibal waxed poetry about every place he’d been in such a manner that Will could close his eyes and envision it, like he himself had been there. The doctor’s dulcet tone would lull him into micro naps, his body relaxed and chin to his chest as Hannibal continued to guide them West. He’d never felt so rested in his life, on horseback or otherwise.

_(On a hot, dusty night, lying on the same blanket with their packs rolled up as pillows, they gaze at the stars, elbow to elbow. Together they name the constellations they can remember off of the tops of their heads, Hannibal regaling Will with tales of gods and fantastical wars and romance. Will falls asleep first, and when he wakes up it’s to the soft sounds of Hannibal snoring, his exhalations ruffling Will’s hair. They’re tangled together, legs and arms, Will’s face tucked protectively in the curve of Hannibal’s neck. He smells like leather and sunshine and for a moment Will debates waking him, getting their day started; instead, he closes his eyes, feeling the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips when Hannibal’s arms give him a gentle squeeze. The sun is just barely cresting over the horizon. They can sleep a while longer.)_

The landscape slowly changed from dusty plains to rolling hills. It was deathly hot despite the fact it was nearing the end of September. Between the horses and the dogs they had their belongings packed neatly and orderly; a combination of dried meats and fruits provided by Hannibal, canned beans and small bags of rice; they had a few changes of clothes, though they alternated only between two sets each in order to keep their better clothes from getting ruined by the trek. Hannibal had brought a few books, and Will had been honestly surprised that the doctor hadn’t suggested they tote a wagon along so he could bring more of his beautiful possessions. In the end the man had only wanted his most rare and important medical books. 

Will had been thankful that the fickle doctor bent easily for him. 

_(Setting up for the night is a simple task, one they alternate. One sets up their modest camp, the other treks around either on horse or foot, gathering firewood, berries if they could, and scouting their surroundings to make sure they aren’t encroaching on someone’s property, or worse- a tribe. Tonight Will is setting up camp, pots and pans gently clanking. Hannibal had quickly gotten over his blatant dislike of canned anything, but Will knows that the man prefers to eat something freshly trapped or shot. Tonight won’t be one of those nights, unfortunately, the woods around them a pathetic excuse for brush. It’s just a small copse of dead trees clustered around a tiny creek winding its way through the region._

_Busy erecting the grill for their cookware, the sound of a near deafening **CRACK!** makes Will almost jump out of his skin. Falling onto his ass he whips around, gun at the ready, aiming it at an amused-looking Hannibal. The doctor has his bullwhip in his hand, his stance powerful, the rising moon bringing forth the ever-present shadows lingering around his frame to enshroud him nearly entirely. His maroon eyes glitter, his lips parting in a smile to reveal wicked sharp teeth. _

_“I believe this would go with dinner nicely.”_

_Will’s gaze drops to the ground. Barely a foot away from him--uncomfortably too close, honestly--is the carcass of a huge snake, the head lobbed off. The whip did that. Hannibal did that. Holstering his gun Will can’t help but chuckle in disbelief, reaching out to pick up the snake, admiring the length and girth of it. Sliding his gaze back up to the smug doctor, he says, “Your talents seem to grow by the day.”_

_“No, dear Will,” Hannibal says, coiling his whip to hang it on his belt once more. “I merely have more opportunities to show them off._

_The snake is delicious.)_

The pair of them didn’t stir up too much trouble. Will had thought the Indians would have gotten the jump on them, take advantage of two lone travelers, but they’d been left alone. The few Indians they’d seen had been rather disinterested in them. Will supposed it was a good thing they looked too ragged to be good targets for any sort of pillaging. Hannibal felt otherwise--he said he’d always wanted to meet a tribe, learn about their culture and people. Will had laughed outright in his face. Indians didn’t make small talk unless _they_ wanted to. Hannibal had seemed miffed, but placated. For now.

It was over a month before they saw a collection of trees thick enough and dense enough to be called a thicket. After nothing but plains, desert, and rolling hills filled with cactus and tumbleweed, the sight was beautiful. It was a miracle they hadn’t run out of supplies, but the meat and fruit Hannibal had dried and cured was easy to store and filling in small portions. The closer they got to the trees the more they hastened the pace, the shortening distance revealing a valley below.

It took Will’s breath away. 

Sprawled out like God’s lazy, indulgent afterthought, were pine trees as far as the eyes could see. Blossoms of color strewn about broke up the landscape like stars in the sky, pinks and oranges and purples. There were animals darting about; racoons, deer, squirrels--the dogs whined and yipped, too obedient to leave their human’s side to give chase. Will’s heart squeezed. This was the apex of wild nature, the last frontier, the land unknown and untainted by man and his devilish machines and abuse. He felt his eyes burning slightly. Reaching up to rub his chest, he swallowed and cleared his throat a few times. Buster sidled up next to Winston, Hannibal’s hand reaching out to squeeze Will’s shoulder. They gazed at the blue mountains in the distance in quiet wonder. It was everything Will could have ever dreamed, and more. 

“I regret not convincing you to come sooner. The look on your face is… art, dear Will. You are art.” 

A fat tear tipped out of his eye. He reached up and knuckled it away self consciously. He turned a shaky smile to Hannibal, feeling an elation so foreign it was making his head light. The heaviness and guilt that clung to him for so long blew away with the fluffy clouds overhead.

“How do you feel?” 

“Free,” Will whispered.

The smile on Hannibal’s face was an image Will immediately committed to memory. He turned his regal face to the landscape, the sun high above hitting his wide-brimmed hat and casting his features in sharp shadows. Will found he liked Hannibal at every interval, every stage, but this Hannibal--tan, dirty, now made of more light than shadows--was something special. Something… only his, revealed as the shadows flitted this way and that, torn between clinging to the doctor and flying away.

Their horses shifted and brought them closer together. Going naturally with the movement Will reached out to catch Hannibal’s shoulder, the doctor turning toward him amiably. They met in the middle, leaning into one another. The kiss was surprisingly sweet, soft. Hannibal’s emotions for Will, unguarded and delicate yet fierce with passion, were mirrored this time. It was short. But it was theirs. 

\--

It took another five days to reach civilization. San Francisco was a metropolis compared to anything Will had ever seen in his entire life. Hannibal took everything in with interest, the tall, narrow buildings, the steep hills, the motorcars and the well to-do people. Will normally felt out of place anywhere he went, but here in particular he felt bedraggled at best. Though Hannibal was dressed down and as dirty as he was, the air he held about him had men still tipping their hat to him respectfully. The plan was to stay in town for a few days, rest the animals and stock up fully on supplies before continuing on. Will was still sure he wanted to build a cabin in some remote woods, and Hannibal was still fully supportive, though as they meandered around town with clean clothes and full bellies, Will wondered if Hannibal truly wanted to give up a comfortable life in order to support Will’s dreams of being a mountain man. 

It became very apparent very quickly just how much money Hannibal had. Will was glad that the doctor had made no mention of it on their journey (and seemingly hid it incredibly well), because if Will had been aware of the riches he would have been a little more nervous in their travels. He knew they could take care of anyone that crossed their path, but being worried about Hannibal’s _wealth_ would have been a different worry altogether. 

They stayed in an upscale hotel and dined at lovely restaurants. San Francisco was a gold town, the picture of Victorian elegance interspersed with the dusty West, cowboys mingling with upper classmen. Men in suits, women in dresses. The miners were rough around the edges but nothing like the dirty old workmen Will was used to seeing. They took the time to rest and see the sights; Chinatown caught their attention for a few days, the food and bits and baubles entertaining them both. Hannibal was clearly entranced with everything and anything San Francisco had to offer. Whenever his eyes had a chance, though, Will would cast his gaze wistfully toward the bay. It had been a long time since he’d seen the ocean; not since he left Louisiana. 

Hannibal caught on soon enough. After spending days in the city they spent days in the port, on the beaches, admiring ships and shops. They asked around about going North, which many people had varying opinions on; mostly the people talked about it being uncharted territory, mountains and wilderness and beauty. One man even spoke of a rainforest, a bit of information that arrested Hannibal’s attention for a while as he tried to figure out more details on that specific topic. 

All in all they stayed in the city for two weeks. A week longer than Will had originally intended, but they were caught up playing tourist. They were only in their hotel room to sleep--in two separate rooms, at the suggestion of the hotel clerk, one they were not going to dismiss--but otherwise were attached at the hip. Hannibal had procured a few suits, falling back into his usual clean-cut style. Will, at Hannibal’s insistence, wore brand new, clean denim with tasteful button-up shirts and a pair of new, durable, boots. 

With all the information they were gathering, they were deciphering a plan to trek into the wilderness. Hannibal suggested a donkey and a small cart, which Will tried to shoot down by reminding him that the terrain was unknown--a cart might not be able to follow them all the way. But in deciding the schematics of building a cabin they had procured tools and accessories, and needed a way to haul them off into the middle of nowhere. Will relented. He supposed that they would solve the unknown as it came to them. Will knew the ulterior motive of the donkey and the cart was for the wardrobe Hannibal insisted on purchasing. It included weather-appropriate clothing for the mountains (where there would be snow), so Will let it slide. 

On the road again. They had purchased a map from a grizzled old man who said he’d explored the mountains and forests in his youth. His stories and tales were fascinating and sometimes scary, but with a restock of ammo along with some traps and extra guns, they felt prepared. After fifteen days in the bustling city of San Francisco they headed North, leaving civilization behind for the second time. 

Meeting each other’s gazes, their horses chuffing and snuffing, fully rested, Will and Hannibal exchanged small smiles. The dogs yipped happily as they pranced around the horses and sniffed at the donkey and the cart it was hauling. This was the beginning of the final leg of their journey. 

They were in no rush.

\--

_8 months later…_

Constructing a log cabin wasn’t difficult. In fact, between Will’s practical knowledge and Hannibal’s deep intelligence, they fared well. The simplicity of Will’s design was in the nearly perfect square footage, numbers and dimensions coming easily to him. The elegance of Hannibal’s design was the many windows, the wide front porch, and the assembly of the stove that had come with them in pieces. Settled somewhere in the Oregon territory, high enough in the mountains to Will’s liking and close enough to the ocean and the nearest town for Hannibal’s, they--quite literally--built their life together. The first snow had taken them by surprise, but Will had thought ahead to build a small shelter, just big enough for them and the dogs to curl up inside surrounded by animal furs and the linens Hannibal had brought along. They worked tirelessly day and night, sawing and lifting and hammering. On the day the last piece of the roof went into place a dusting of snow was swirling around them, their clothes and faces dirty, Will smiled bright and elated, turning to wrap Hannibal up in a rare, tight hug, the doctor nearly melting as he returned it. 

Life was, indeed, simple. The town was twenty miles away, a day’s ride on the horses. The river was close enough to fill buckets and provide what they needed for at least two days at a time. The furniture in the cabin grew in numbers until Hannibal deemed himself comfortable; Will would build the frames, and Hannibal would sew the cushions. Will occasionally entertained the thought of selling their pieces, but the need for money was nearly nonexistent. Besides, Hannibal had enough wealth stashed away that adding more money to it was a nearly offensive thought. 

Their livestock grew to five chickens, two goats, and some cats to chase away rodents. They could go weeks without heading to town. 

The townsfolk gave them a wide berth whenever they traveled into town. The two mountain men who appeared almost a bit too… flouncy, to live in the wilderness, polite to a gross degree and never the initiators of casual conversation. They only paid attention to each other and whatever tasks they needed to complete in the town; trading furs and dried meats for wool and cotton, purchasing non-perishables from the general store. They didn’t want for anything, it seemed. Many townsfolk wondered why they even bothered to come into town, if they were so self-sustaining. 

The people didn’t know that when the men came to town, they were after certain supplies that the wilderness simply could not provide. The town didn’t have a sheriff, see, and the unruly often went unchecked. Unchecked, that is, until their bodies would be discovered, mutilated beyond belief, pieces missing and their faces twisted in eternal horror. Given the nature of these foul men, people tended to call the coroner and look the other way. 

No one dared question how or why they ended up like that. 

On the nights following these violent days, Will refused to ask Hannibal what was in their meal. It was better to not know and just enjoy the fanciful spreads for their aesthetic and taste. 

Winter turned to Spring. Hannibal would put a new bouquet of flowers on their table every morning, carefully pruned and arranged in a vase he had once admitted was a family heirloom. Will thought it was ugly, but the way Hannibal regarded it had him biting his tongue. He had instead gently touched Hannibal’s wrist, softly telling him to do anything he wanted to make himself feel more at home.

“Dear Will,” Hannibal had said, reaching up to gently cup the side of Will’s face, thumb tracing over his cheek as bordeaux eyes softened into wine-stained clouds, “home is where you are.” 

Spring turned to Summer. It was officially one year since Will had first crossed paths with Hannibal. Sometimes it was hard to believe that in such a short time he could become so entwined with a single person--but then Hannibal would debate with him on ancient philosophers, or kiss his head as he served breakfast, or insist that Will go into the woods with the dogs for some ‘alone time’ when he knew he was getting on his nerves. Will had never felt so… seen, so understood. 

He knew Hannibal felt the same. 

Their life was simple, with a bit of flair. Everything Hannibal touched turned to art. Every person he engaged with fell a little in love. Rumors circulated around the town about their relationship, but no one dared say anything to their faces. Will wondered how Hannibal would react, should that day come; Will knew he would ignore them, but Hannibal’s tongue could become barbed in a flash. Sometimes he wished someone _would_ say something. Hannibal was beautiful when he was challenged. 

Intimacy between them came in the form of soft kisses and gentle caresses. The heat was at a low simmer, neither of them pushing the other into something… more. They’d been so busy setting up their new life that falling into bed, exhausted, was their nightly routine after Hannibal filled their bellies with whatever meal he cooked. 

Life was better than Will could have ever imagined, when he left the bayou and headed West with a dream, his horse, and his dogs.

\--

“Son of a _bitch_ -”

Will knew the woods surrounding their cabin, but Mother Nature was wild and untamable. He had been returning from a successful hunt, two rabbits and a fox slung over his shoulder, the dogs trotting along him excitedly with their noses in the air. They kept trying to dart in for a nip, he kept trying to swat at them (and failing, the rifle slung around his back and his hands out for balance as he navigated the brush and vegetation), and of course, when he managed to actually swat his fingers against a snout, he over-corrected on his way back and stepped in a soft spot, his ankle rolling.

His knees buckled, the unbalance of his top half being heavier than the bottom nearly pitching him forward. Cussing up a storm he stopped walking, hissing a breath between his teeth as his ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The dogs scattered, then, the bastards finally taking his threats seriously. Sighing, he clenched his teeth and tried to breathe through the waves of pain. His gait was slow and uneven, but he made the trek back to the cabin, giving a sharp whistle under his breath to get the dogs to scatter again. He draped his kill belt over the wooden structure Hannibal used to smoke meat, then leaned against one of the sturdy pillars. Now that he wasn’t moving, the pain of his ankle traveled up his shin to his knee.

“Will?” Hannibal was at his side in an instant, hands fretting over Will as he tried to deduce where the pain was coming from.

“Sprained my ankle,” Will grit out. 

Clucking his tongue, Hannibal grabbed Will’s hand, guiding his arm over his shoulders. He practically lifted the smaller man off of his feet as he brought him to the cabin, setting Will down on the cozy couch and then moving to the kitchen where his medical kit was located. Tipping his head back against the couch, Will sighed, but allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. He admired and enjoyed many things about Hannibal, but there was something about his… bedside manner that gave Will an odd warm feeling.

Hannibal quickly returned. He knelt in front of Will, delicately unlacing his sturdy boots before setting them both aside. Fastidious hands and dextrous fingers poked and probed, Will hissing in intervals whenever he hit a tender spot. From this angle Will was looking down at Hannibal’s head, the grey finally overtaking the blond of his hair, the strands loose and relaxed, his hair style one of the first things Hannibal let go of in their travels. On impulse Will reached out to card his fingers through the soft strands. Hannibal glanced up, the shadows of his features receding slightly as he regarded Will with unbridled affection. 

“You’re going to have to stay off of your feet for a few days,” Hannibal said, returning to the task. He pulled a roll of bandages from his kit, starting to gently wrap Will’s ankle and foot from his lower shin to his toes. The pressure of the wrap soothed his aches immediately. 

“Will you be able to hold down the fort?” Will asked with a wry smile, settling back into the cushions. 

“Today’s spoils from your hunt will get us through these difficult times,” Hannibal said gravely. 

Letting out a breathy chuckle, Will carefully flexed his toes, wincing. Very gently Hannibal massaged his ankle for a few moments, and then he looked up at Will, his tender affection undercut with the warmth of desire. “I think I’ll prescribe bed rest.” 

“And if I refuse treatment?” Will murmured, the warmth in Hannibal’s gaze winding through his veins like a lazy river.

The shadows that perpetually encased Hannibal like a shroud darkened, his smirk revealing small fangs as he reached up to grip at Will’s waist. “Then I shall have to take drastic measures.”

Before Will could make a snarky reply Hannibal stood, hauling Will up with him. Letting out a grunt of surprise Will threw his arms around Hannibal’s neck, flushing brilliantly at the display of strength. His legs wrapped around Hannibal’s waist, exhaling a puff of hot breath against the other man’s lips, rewarded with a slow, passionate kiss. Their lips stayed locked as Hannibal walked them to the bed, and while Will expected to be dumped onto the mattress, he was pleasantly surprised when Hannibal lowered them both gently, once again showing off his incredible strength and grace. On his back Will looked up at Hannibal with dark eyes, watching the daylight filtering through the windows disappear completely, all the light in the room suddenly sucked into the dark vacuum of Hannibal’s eyes, lighting the man from within. 

Breathing slowly, Will dragged his blunt fingernails down Hannibal’s chest, over the soft, thin shirt he was wearing. “Hannibal…” 

“So many times,” the doctor murmured, leaning down to start kissing down the column of Will’s neck. Will turned his head to the side, opening himself up for vulnerability, “I have imagined having you under me, dear Will.”

The furs under his back were soft, thick enough to sink into. Hannibal’s hands undressed him with precision and quickness, though still smooth enough that Will barely even noticed his body being unveiled. Not until Hannibal’s eyes darkened, flitting across every inch of flushed skin. They’d seen each other naked, of course, given their living situation, and on the coldest nights they strip and cling to each other for warmth. But like this… Hannibal’s gaze and touch full of purpose and desire, it was different. In a good way. 

Being with Hannibal, Will couldn’t remember what it was like to make love with anyone, let alone a man. Anyone he’d been intimate with became blurry and unimportant in his head, the memories hard to form. It was like physicality with Hannibal was the be-all end-all, anything before him moot, and the prediction that anything after him--if such a thing were to come to pass--would be droll. 

He could make or break Will, and Will found himself chasing the cracks in his person suit all the way to the origin: Hannibal Lecter. 

Between one blink and the next Hannibal was fully undressed. With the hard labor both of them had endured over the winter crafting their home their bodies had hardened and chiseled in places; Will marveled constantly at the shape of Hannibal, the feel of him, the measure of him. The man was up there in age, something detectable only in conversation, his worldly experience often overshadowing everyone around him. But his body, kept fit and strong, and his preference to stay clean-shaven, his eyes alight with health from the exquisite meals he prepared for him… He was truly a sight to behold. 

Following those thoughts Will’s hands lifted to map Hannibal’s torso, fingers pressing, palms spreading, nails catching on the attractive thatch of chest hair. Hannibal dipped down to kiss the column of Will’s throat, nibbling here and there, full of reverie. Will sighed into the sensations, his hands slipping around Hannibal’s body to gently drag his nails down his spine. Arching like a pleased cat, Hannibal bit into Will’s collarbone sharply, drawing blood to the surface. Will’s legs automatically wrapped around Hannibal’s waist again, drawing him closer, their erections slipping and sliding in the heat and pre-cum soaking them both. It was almost too easy to become aroused by such simple ministrations. Will supposed that his body was so attuned with Hannibal that they were constantly on a feedback loop, both emotional and physical. 

In moments like this, though, Will could see clearly through Hannibal’s person-suit, more so than he could when the man carved out guts with a sharp knife or removed still-beating hearts from chests. When Hannibal’s eyes were for Will and Will only, he could slip past his defenses and dive directly into the source. 

Hannibal’s heart beat for Will.

Will’s soul ached for him in turn. 

The furs were heating up below their bodies, helping to generate sweat. Normally a comforting sensation in the dead of night, it was a bit uncomfortable now, their temperatures rising much quicker than they would had they been on bedsheets instead. As it were, they hadn’t switched out the bedding yet, the mornings still yielding frost. Will’s body slipped here and there, Hannibal’s hands so greedily touching him that they manhandled his slightly smaller frame. Will allowed it. He loved feeling Hannibal’s power, strung taut with restraint. 

Whenever they parted, Will looked his fill. Hannibal’s skin was slick with sweat, tan skin flushed with arousal. His eyes were dark, his teeth were sharp, the shadows dancing over his shoulders pulsing in time with their heartbeats. Hannibal bent to drag Will’s nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and wet, causing Will to gasp sharply and arch up into him. His fingers threaded through straw-colored hair, yanking and tugging slightly, the clamminess of his hands transferring to the strands. They were going to need a wash when they were done, but Will couldn’t find it in him to care. 

Their cocks bumped and slid. Hannibal braced himself on one forearm next to Will’s head, Will admiring the way his shoulder and bicep flexed to hold him up. His other hand dipped between their bodies, his huge paw taking both their cocks in hand to squeeze them tightly. Huffing out, Will’s eyes rolled back into his head. They moved in sync, bodies and minds harmonized, the wavelength traveling through their bodies as they rocked. Will desperately wanted Hannibal inside of him, around him, anything--but Hannibal was, and would continue to be, mindful of his injury. The man was a doctor, after all, and a stubborn one at that. 

Nevertheless, the pleasure built up. Slowly, a simmer that rolled through his veins. He was unaware of how much time passed, how long they spent moving together, kissing, touching, gasping and panting. The shadows that dripped over Hannibal’s shoulders splattered onto Will’s chest, dispersing and spreading, zings of euphoria crashing like ocean waves through his psyche. Through the shadows they were merging. He was being pulled under.

“My darling,” Hannibal rumbled. It was like his voice moved the very earth. He swooped in for a kiss, tongue commanding and demanding, and like that, Will succumbed. 

The shadows overtook him completely, pleasure exploding through him like a volcano. 

As the shadows receded at a slow slither, Will blinked his eyes open. Hannibal was lying next to him, holding him securely in his arms. Will’s head was tucked under Hanniba’s chin, nose pressed into the hollow of his throat where his scent was strongest. It was ambrosia. His lids felt heavy. 

“If I saw you every day for forever,” Hannibal murmured, his voice dulcet and saccharine, sated in the way only lovemaking could cause, “I would remember this time.” 

The shadows inside Will fanned out, vibrating with pleasure. Will smiled against Hannibal’s throat, pressing the smallest of kisses to his sticky skin. 

“Are you happy?” Hannibal asked. Will was about to tell him to be quiet and allow him to bask in the moment, but then he said, “After killing those men, leaving the bayou… after becoming sheriff of a sleepy town and saving them from annihilation…” he pressed his lips to Will’s curly hair. “Are you happy to be in the wilderness your heart has desired for so long?” 

Will could hear the true question behind the poetry. Pulling back slightly so as to make eye contact with Hannibal, irises clear as day, he said, “I’ve never known myself as well as I know myself when I’m with you.” 

Searchingly, Hannibal met his gaze. A few beats of silence passed, the sweat cooling on their bodies. Finally, Hannibal gently traced his thumb over Will’s orbital bone. 

“It has been a privilege to see your becoming, Will.” 

Fluttering his lashes, Will felt the shadows between them shrink before expanding with a burst, scattering through the cabin like a frenzied cauldron of bats. 

This was only the beginning.


End file.
